The Ballad of the Beauty and the Brat
by Ashesofthefirststar
Summary: A.U Ichigo, Ikkaku, Renji, and Uryu are band mates, friends, and students. While lead singer Ichigo is juggling a full time job, school, and a band, he finds him self with a helpless crush on his professor, ex musician, Byakuya Kuchiki. Meanwhile, Ikkaku becomes captivated by a live fast die young DJ, Yumichika. If only love was as simple as music.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hey guys, so before you jump into this, I wanted to clarify a few things. First off, as the summary says, this is an AU. Secondly, this story focuses on two parings, Ichigo X Byakuya and Ikkaku X Yumichika. I will try to make this a fair 50/50, though, to be quite honest, Ichibya is my total OTP so it may be hard to not be bias at times. If for whatever reason, you only want to read about one pairing and not the other, the stories really have little to do with each other, so you can, but it may become complicated to read when their all in same scenes together.**

 **Since music is such a big aspect of this story, I do reference quite a few musicians, however, rather you know them or not shouldn't effect understanding the story or the context their being used in.**

 **This story is comical, or at least it's suppose to be, but it's also going to have really dramatic aspects. Because this is an AU and a comedy or sorts, please don't be to harsh with characterization. I feel as if I keep the crux of these characters the same, however it's not perfect. I'll let you know now that I always characterize Byakuya and Ichigo as total sarcastic smart asses.**

 **Disclaimer: This story will get pretty heavy later on, it will contain sexual abuse, drug abuse, and sex. Please, mature readers only.**

 **Good Vibes**

 **xXx**

 _I think I might have inhaled you._

 _I can feel you behind my eyes._

 _You've gotten into my bloodstream,_

 _I can feel you flowing in me.- Stateless-"Bloodstream"_

 **Punch Drunk Love**

When the gawky, disheveled, and very late Ichigo pushed through the door of English 253, his British Literature II class, he was met by the susurrus of giggles given by his fellow peers and the intense death stare of his professor, Byakuya Kuchiki. Trying to avoid eye contact with everything but the open chair he was roving towards, he could feel the disparaging orbs of his professor stuck on him.

' _Those fucking annoying eyes and them stupid heavy eyelids, stop molesting me with them! I can't take it,'_ he pleaded inwardly, now taking a seat in his chair.

After deliberately waiting for Ichigo to find his seat, as if to give him a passing moment of fraudulent felicity, he reprimanded, "Kurosaki, you're late," a slight sigh, "again. Perhaps in your whopping sixteen years of education you were unaware, but people who don't come to class don't pass said class." At the sound of his authoritative voice castigating him, Ichigo recoiled in his seat slightly, addled by how the voice of such an asshole could cause him a mixture of nervousness and agitation.

Scrunching his brow slightly at the caustic comment, he put on a forced voice of amicability, returning the snark ten folds. "Really? I didn't know that getting A's on all of your papers was a sign of failing." Smirking slightly, he rebutted, "I really have been unaware all this time."

' _Yeah, chew on that. I'm busy, not fucking dumb.'_ As Ichigo noticed an extra button undone on the professor's pristinely pressed cotton ensemble and licked his lip slightly at the flash of dulcet Byakuya-flesh peeking through. He recanted inwardly, ' _Nope, I'm dumb as shit. Dumber than Renji and Ikkaku when they spent all their money on getting plastered_ _and were serenading street dwellers for a free meal. Do I really fucking know how many buttons he usually leaves unbuttoned? When did I become so creepy? AHHHHH.'_

The group of oversized children giggled at the always sardonic Ichigo Kurosaki, the biggest of those children laughing the hardest: his best friend and bandmate, Renji. Still Ichigo's narrowed eyes were pinpointed on Byakuya's, whose still face didn't vacillate once. Like some sociopathic glacial hybrid, the man's face never emoted, and despite how hard he would be pushed, he merely gave an unmovable glare that could spook a blind person.

Before returning to his lecture, the debonair man merely dignified the comment with, "See me after class."

Ichigo mumbled out a barely audible, "Great."

' _This fucking guy, I don't know if I want to slap him or kiss him… Both, yea', definitely both.'_ As Ichigo's inner monologue continued, he chided himself, " _God, what's wrong with me? What kind of masochist do I have to be to have feelings for this walking personality disorder?'_

As Byakuya spoke about the symbolism used in the poem 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' as zealously as a man of his temperament could muster, Ichigo pulled out a notebook and scribbled frantically, trying to avoid any more thoughts that would have him questioning his sanity… again.

On many… many ccasions, Ichigo's puerile love drunk brain would dream up steamy over-the-top scenarios of after-class talks with the professor. Like some cheaply made porno, Byakuya would punish him with his whole girth, pounding him into the desk that he'd just been reprimanding him from. However, on the jillions of moments Ichigo found himself alone with his professor, all he received were severe orbs drowning him with disappointment and a long hard talking to, leaving him riddled with questions, wondering what about this man held his attention so dexterously.

' _I'd like something else that was hard and long,'_ he moaned inwardly, only to let a visible blush fill his cheeks at the dirty thought, increasing his frantic and indiscernible scribbles. _'Not only am I a big ol' pervert, but I'm unoriginal about it. Come on, Ichigo. Hard and long? You're a writer, step it up with your grade school sexual innuendos.'_

Who was he? He wasn't some high school student anymore. Shit, he hadn't even had a crush on anyone in high school, or really ever, especially not on a teacher. They made tasteless B-rated movies and wrote annoying 80's songs about this kind of thing. Ichigo felt like the personification of cheesiness, an unalloyed stereotype, a walking 'senpai, notice me' meme.

Perhaps it was how debonair yet distant Byakuya seemed, how intelligent and cunning, sarcastic, yet enigmatic. And no, it wasn't lost on him how lame that sounded. 'I like my instructor because he's _mysterious_.' Fucking Christ. Mostly, he thought, this _affliction_ was caused by his aversion to being bored, which most things did, but not Professor Kuchiki.

Admittedly, that's why Ichigo avoided serious relationships like gas station sushi. Nobody really caught his attention. It wasn't something he boasted about. In fact, he thought that maybe he was broken or defective, perhaps a cyborg. He considered the finite amount of reasons that his attention could never be given to someone like that, and he'd come up with nadda.

He'd found out he was gay about the same time he'd found out he wanted to be a musician. At six years old, the orange-haired vivacious tyke stormed around the house while perfecting his air guitar rendition of "Hello Operator" by the White Stripes. He declared he was going to marry Jack White and become a rock star. Yes, his first and only love, along with his greatest muse, belonged to the punky vacant-eyed rock star donned in red skinnies. This was the result of letting an impressionable kid watch a copious amount of music television, back when MTV had really played music. His single father had just laughed and said, 'do you, kid,' with all the unconditional patriarchal love a son could need. Yes, even at that age, he'd been nothing but ambitious.

As time had gone on, his devotion to music had kept him from the qualms of most high school angst. He'd tried not to instigate, but still, being the abjectly dangerous cocktail of horny, dumb, and young - the holy trifecta - he, of course, had dated occasionally, though nothing had ever lasted more than a month or so, as he'd soon grown bored and uninterested. In fact, he'd only actually ever allowed coitus to occur with one guy, and something about the fetid void he'd felt at his lack of feelings towards such a serious thing, he'd been left feeling gross; worse than the time a belligerent Renji had thrown up on him gross. Without words, he'd decided to not have sex without feelings again. Of course, he'd occasionally indulged in hanky-panky or a blowjob with one of the guys he was dating. He'd never claimed to be a nun.

During his high school days, his underdeveloped frontal lobe was the cause of more of these relationships than he'd like to admit. As he'd entered college, his want to understand the sensation that could make a man _want_ to give away his last piece of cheesecake had curbed. Now his relationships seemed to come around as sparingly as "The National's" would release a CD. Every once in a while, he'd see a cute gay couple with their stupid adorable gaby, spreading their mushy pheromones like it was some fucking disease. It was almost enough for Ichigo to think maybe the moronic churches of the world had been right about catching gayness all along, because he would catch a butt load of the 'maybe I can have the big gay family' angst, making him wonder if he was capable of feeling that. Eventually, he'd fall into a relationship that he'd just fall straight out off. Once his mind had calmed down from the domestic hypnosis, he realized that he'd much rather eat his own damn cheesecake, and that every beau he'd had was just a mistress for his one true love: music.

His volatile brain had recently sent him into this same cycle, making visions of matching guitar cases and a Johnny and June Cash-esque romance effervescent in his lovesick mind, only to realize that just because he wanted to feel love doesn't mean he had someone he felt it towards. Still, he gave it the good ol' Kurosaki try, but this last failed relationship was now the cause of a much more pressing matter. You see, these bouts of romantic capriciousness were about as dangerous as they were long, but sometimes, they were plain ol' stupid. Because he had never dated a musician before, Ichigo had thought that perhaps he could relate better to one, and as a consequence, fell in love. So when Jeremy, the guy the band had just recruited to be their new bass player, asked him out, Ichigo had said yes.

No sooner than hearing this conversation take place, Uryu had jumped on Craigslist and put out an ad for another bass player; they all knew how this was going down. Uryu, Renji, and Ikkaku could have killed him, just slaughtered him where he'd stood, because they all knew this cycle. Ichigo would be happily single for a year and a half or more before he started to wonder why his music-filled heart couldn't feel the sting of love, and he'd start having nightmares of him being seventy, alone. The highlight of his day would be singing in-between bingo tournaments at a nursing home he resided at. Then, the 'lucky' guy who happened to proposition him in the midst of this internal conflict, if Ichigo liked him well enough, would get the ever elusive 'sure, why not,' as a response, a response that most of the homosexual population of their university yearned for, yet dismissed as an urban legend, a verbal personification of a unicorn.

It wasn't as if Ichigo didn't have any other choices. On the contrary, his life was like walking through a blizzard of unsolicited propositions, being beleaguered by thirsted genitals. Perhaps it was the lead singer's hotness mixed with his nonchalant blitheness and casual indifference, but for whatever reason, every gay bass player within the university was vying for a spot. Still, to make a long story short, the relationship with Jeremy ended, leaving them without a bass player. This one had lasted a whopping two months, his longest tryst yet. However, he wasn't quite sure if the prolonged break-up was on a count for him liking Jeremy more than his prior boyfriends or because he was a really good bass player. The want to not be completely heartless caused him to really hope it wasn't the latter.

Still, now they were without a bass player, and it was all Ichigo's fault. Not only that, but from the myriad of players who had come, Jeremy was the only one who was really impressive and flexible enough to work with the band. Not to mention, he was one of the very few that could deal with the particular charm of the rough and rowdy ambience he and his band mate gave off. Until he found a new bass player, he'd become victim to widely flying lit cigarette butts, drum sticks, and smart ass comments.

' _It's not like I made Jeremy leave the band. He was just too fucking emotional about it, dammit_ , _'_ Ichigo reasoned, though he sighed slightly. His more moralistic side made him feel bad. _'It's not like I wanted to hurt the guy. I guess I really should've know better.'_

Admittedly, he wasn't sure why he was like this. It was like no one could ever hold his attention; romantic ADHD, if you will. He just never had time for it. When he'd been really young, after his mom had passed, he, his dad, and his two sisters had moved to America where his dad had opened a clinic. Despite what movies may have you believe, doctors are not all rich, especially when they have three financial leeches bound to their soul and wallet by DNA. So, if Ichigo was to ever aspire to do anything other than sit on his dad's couch and wistfully hope his band made it, he'd need a scholarship to pay for college. That was easy enough because he was a pretty naturally smart kid. Plus, he was pushed by an instinctual want to make his father and mother proud, to prove he could get into a good school and pay for it all on his own. He didn't want help, and bore all of his obstacles on his own shoulders. He'd always been like that, prideful and headstrong, a one man show, filled with hormones, ambitions, and audaciousness. Ichigo always had been a force to be reckoned with.

It was when his dad had died from lung cancer that things became more complicated. The three had cried at their expiring father's bedside. Ichigo cursed through sobs at his still somehow jaunty father, 'A doctor who smokes cigarettes. Dying from lung cancer, how fucking ironic, eh? You're so stupid.' When his father smirked slightly and replied, 'I love you, too.' Ichigo knew those were his last words and the beginning to a whole new life. As a junior in high school, he took care of his sisters while working a full time job. The money from his dad's life insurance went straight into a college fund; he didn't want the girls having to worry so much about paying for college like he did. Now as a junior in college, he still worked full time, took care of his sisters, all while also maintaining a three point zero G.P.A and being the lead guitarist and singer of a band. He had time for relationships like he had time to deal with his loquacious costumers, who held up the lines by asking for a detailed explanation on the difference between soy and skim milk.

He never bitched or moaned, or asked for help. He refused to be some 'Annie: the musical; come to life, singing his woes about how it was hard to be an orphan. No, almost as if to prove that he could, to do right by his family, he juggled a copious amount of struggles like they were flame-festooned chainsaws.

The mellifluous baritone of Professor Kuchiki made Ichigo's glazed-over orbs blink slightly at the words in front of him, the first and _only_ love song he had ever written. A living monument to his delusional lameness, a living and breathing testimony to his pubescent infatuation. This was some Area fifty-one shit to Ichigo, never to be seen by any eyes other than his own. His bandmates would use this as prime shit-talking material for months. Not that they didn't already know and extort the fact that Ichigo was pathetically head over heels for his professor. Though he denied it, whether it was good or bad, the Kuchiki name was never foreign to Ichigo's vernacular. He vied for him in class, he vied for him at work, he vied for him during practice, he vied for him when he way buying a bagel, he vied for him all over the fucking place. Him, who found the concept of astrophysics more coherent than romance, who only wrote songs about his values or real tragedies, had a raging crush on his literature Professor, his first crush ever. He was one overheard conversation away from finding out Byakuya was married or had a gaby or something and spiraling into a void of malaise, only to drown his sorrows by playing 'Ryan Adams' on a loop and consuming his weight in Ben and Jerry's.

Ichigo had been working furtively on this song for three months, ever since the Professor had walked into the class room last semester, garbed in his brand name ensemble and glacier sharp face, and announced that he would be replacing the old British Literature I teacher. When a student had made some stupid comment and Byakuya had replied with casual sarcasm, 'The more I interact with students, the more I have faith in the American educational system. Well, luckily for you, I'll do my best to undo all the ignorance you've been fed. Though, by the look's of it, this will be a challenge,' Ichigo was pretty sure he'd fallen in love with the man right then and there, which only intensified when he realized Kuchiki would be his Professor the next semester also.

He remembered his thoughts on that first meeting exactly. _'Yes, the devil really does wear Prada.'_

As Professor Kuchiki dismissed the class, Ichigo thought, ' _It's not that crazy, right? I just turned twenty-one and I've heard rumors he's only twenty-eight… Yeah, but age difference really isn't the crazy part, is it?'_

Renji left the room, but not before wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and mouthing 'have fun.' Ichigo made sure to swing a foot right at his ass, but alas, missed his target.

After Renji left, Ichigo slowly yet apprehensively looked at the cynosure of what Ichigo thought was the lamest crush in the vast universe. Of course, the professor wasn't even looking at him, just looking through a grade book and waiting for Ichigo to walk to his desk. He could've stood and implicated simple kinetic energy, just walked to the professor's desk, but inertia grasped him. This was a game of chicken that he had become accustomed to over the span of their relationship, one Ichigo always lost. He wasn't sure why, but he always wanted Byakuya to address him first, but the man never would. When Byakuya finally glanced up, his face as still as his precisely ironed button-up, he gave Ichigo the look he always did; one that signified he wouldn't address him in such an informal manner.

With a grunt and roll of the eyes, Ichigo pushed himself from his graffiti-riddled desk and dragged his feet a whopping two yards to the professor, readying himself for his usual atonement. "Look Teach, I'm sorry, the bu-" he mustered halfheartedly.

"Kurosaki," his sultry voice interrupted, "Let's be straightforward with each other, shall we?"

Situated in his fitted Modest-Mouse tee, his thrift store swindled army jacket, and his slightly torn light denim jeans, Ichigo felt horribly underdressed in front of the debonair man. Still he tried to veil that with a slight scowl as he groaned, "Ugh, I know we're both Japanese and all, but do ya' gotta call me by my last name? None of the other professors do that."

Giving the orange-haired man a pointed glare, Kuchiki corrected, "My affinity for surnames has less to do with my heritage and more to do with professionalism."

Giving a nervous chuckle, Ichigo joked, "Well you're at the wrong school. Half the teachers here have zen gardens in their class rooms and insist on being called by their spirit animal names."

With a mocking scoff, Byakuya countered, "And half of them also mix their morning coffee with a shot of Jim Beam." Crossing his arms, he reasoned, "Half of your peers don't share your mastery of the language, nor care for this class. Does that mean you should be likewise?"

"Pffh-" Ichigo scoffed, mixing sarcasm and arrogance, "Come on, Professor, you know I would never stoop to such _puerile_ behavior." He couldn't help but to think back to last week when he and Renji had a contest to see who could fit more marshmallows in their mouths. Ichigo won for obvious reasons. He bit back a laugh.

After his biting comments, Ichigo's desperately pathetic brain dreamt up that his Professor actually smirked. That or it was the most ephemeral smirk to have ever been smirked. "Look, Kurosaki, let me be frank with you." His gray eyes narrowed into Ichigo's clamorous soul as he continued, "You're _obviously_ aware that your vernacular and your understanding of the language are bounds above the other students. Your ability to convey words and ideas in not only a coherent manner, but in such an interesting and poetic way, is beyond even some of my most talented peers." With a deep sigh, he signified his concessions.

Crudely, Ichigo thought, ' _Oh, I can show you how talented I am_ … _Did I really just think that? Really, who says that? Fuck, put me down like a horse with a broken leg. Please, some deity up above, if you have any mercy, you'll put me out of my abject misery.'_

"You have plenty of potential, and if you don't stay focused on your education, you'll lose a myriad of opportunities. You should be taking your talents and helping them thrive." Running his eyes up and down the younger man, eyeing the man like a dirty dishrag, he insulted, "Perhaps if you finished your education and obtained a career, you could afford to buy a decent pair of pants."

Ichigo's face vacillated from offended to almost amused. Though he wanted to get all pissy and defend his thrift store jeans, he truly ate up Kuchiki's perfectly crafted cocktail of snark and bluntness, like his words were soft shells on one dollar taco night: he devoured them ungracefully. Not missing a beat, Ichigo returned the sarcasm. "Ah, but that's what the holes are for. Ya' show a little bit of skin and you have every one buying your shit for you."

Crinkling his pointed nose, Kuchiki pursed his lips as if to hold back a smirk. "Sounds like a failsafe business plan, but you forget one thing, Kurosaki: looks fade, but your snarky well-educated mouth will not." Placating himself slightly, he added, "If there are issues keeping you from class, I'm willing to sit down an-"

"Uh, no thank you," Ichigo interjected, "Whatever circumstances are keeping me from class, I'll situate it." Ichigo? The boy wonder? Taking help from anybody? He'd sooner sit through the agony of a boy band concert, swallowing down the fetid mixture of puberty and crackling falsettos, before he'd let his pride sink so low, especially in front of such a supercilious man as Byakuya Kuchiki. He'd just have to tell his boss he'd need to get off thirty minutes early on class days. It would suck losing the money, even such a scanty amount; that was gas money.

For a transitory moment, the still-life of a face actually looked as if it wanted to emote anger, but quickly huffed and averted back to its lesson plan. "Well," he said in a casually indifferent tone, "Do what you will, just make sure it gets you to class on time."

The singer let out a loaded huff filled with all of his wanton horniness and finite frustration. The huff was suppressing an aneurism effervescent with bad choices. His capricious body decided between turning back around and staying in college or attacking his teacher's face with kisses and getting expelled for assaulting a professor. Decisions, decisions.

Like always, his survival instincts overrode his sexual instincts, and he turned on his heels. He sauntered through the hall at torpid rates, whining to the only person he'd allow to listen: himself.

' _Okay, so sexual harassment is out_. _What about a date?'_

' _Wait, how do I ask a guy on a date? I've never done it… I mean, I've been asked on tons, but somehow_ _I don't think the example of some college dropout wearing a Naruto -shirt_ _working at the bowling alley_ _will be enough to woo the professor.'_

' _What does he do for fun, even? Sit in dusty libraries? Practice not moving his face? Iron his shirts?_ … _I don't know, but by how fucking fancy he looks all the god damn time, it's probably nothing I can afford.'_

' _I wonder if he'd be into the old school horror movie festival they're having at the end of the month_ … _He looks like he likes old things… I wonder what his laugh sounds like_ … _I want to hear it_ … _I-_ "

 _BAM!_

The gauche Ichigo tumbled down, hitting his tailbone in the gawkiest fashion as his papers intermingled with the person he'd knocked down. What a vertiginous tumble it was, so much so that Ichigo had to take a moment to compose himself before moving on his knees to take a good look at the person he bumped into. In front of him, situated back on her heels, was a girl donned in a slightly oversized 'Full Metal Alchemist' sweatshirt, that was tucked into a dark crimson, waist high, A-cut skirt that fell just above her knees. Under her skirt were sheer black stockings and well maintained converse sneakers. Along with her short black hair scattered with vibrant red highlights and her piercing purple eyes poking through dark rimmed glasses, Ichigo couldn't help but to think she was the personification of the alternative college girl. By the looks of her, she probably spent her days in obscure coffee shops no one had ever heard of, and only had independent movies in her Netflix queue.

With a slight scowl, the girl wrestled through the scattered papers. "Watch where you're going, you damn space cadet," she chided.

Also working through the mounds of mismatched math homework and reading assignment, Ichigo returned the scowl halfheartedly. "Well you're so short I didn't see ya' coming, geez," he teased.

"So short!" she boomed indignantly, "That hair is so bright, it blinded me. You should have insurance on that thing."

Unsure if she was returning his snark or truly trying to insult him, Ichigo grunted, "Hey-" only to be cut off by the girl's half smirk and hefty chuckle. Seeing the girl wasn't just a poster child for the uptight coffee shop chick, Ichigo returned the grin. While they both stood, he countered casually, "I guess it's just the hazards of our existence, eh? I'll try to be less reckless with this thing," he teased, pointing towards his hair.

Looking down into his hands, he saw a piece of unidentified sheet music. Addled, he held it out for the girl. "Is this yours?" he inquired.

Taking a moment to look at the paper, a flash of relief crossed her orbs while she grabbed for it. "Yeah. Thanks. That would've been a pain in the ass to replace."

Ichigo was so unlucky that at times, he felt as if an invisible ladder floated above his head. Despite believing luck to be all malarkey and hocus-pocus, he would never say that the universe was working _in_ his favor. If anything, it only worked in his favor because he pushed it that way. Still, the scintilla of hope that filled his usually realistic brain caused him to ask, "What kind of music do you play?"

"I dabble in a couple of things, but my main focus is the electric bass. My brother taught me," she replied.

"Are you serious?" he gaped. "On a scale to one through Professor Kuchiki, how serious are you?"

At the name, the girl's features flinched a bit before she let out a slight huff, "No one is Professor Kuchiki serious, trust me."

Ichigo half expected some clamorous alarm to sound, signifying him the luckiest bastard in the world. _'This must be what people who win the Price Is Right feel like,"_ he mused. Only, before Bob Barker could come out and congratulate him on his new bassist, he had to ask her first.

Looking up to the sky, he praised, "I don't know if I believe in heaven or anything like that, but if you're up there, David Bowie, fucking bless you."

With slightly gaped eyes and a bewildered face, she asked, "Uhh.. do you usually talk to your self, or is this like a condition?… "

Bypassing her question, Ichigo rambled, "Okay, so I know I don't really know you, but I'm in a band, and we've recently lost our bass player. Well, you play the bass, and we just happened to bump into each other." With a slight smirk, he added, "Why fight destiny, really?"

Rolling her eyes, the girl countered, "By the sound of my stomach, my destiny is at the taco truck right outside," before turning on her heels.

Ichigo was way too stubborn to let this chance encounter slip thought his fingers. Screw luck, he was creating his own luck. Running up beside her, he followed along with her hoping he didn't come off as a stalker. "I think I could use a burrito too." A charismatic smile stretched his mirthful face. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, me knocking you on your ass and all." Maneuvering in front of her, he stuck out a hand. "I'm Ichigo Kurosaki. I'm in a band who's in desperate need of a bass player. If you're available, I'd really like to hear you play."

Wisteria-hued orbs eyed the hand like they had personal history, like the hand had somehow done wrong by her. She let that pleasant glare glide back and forth between Ichigo's face and out stretched hand. "If you want me to be in your band, impeding me from getting to my food is not the way," she warned, almost as if to say she'd eat that hand if he didn't get out of her way and let her quench her voracity.

Still donning his dopy grin, undeterred by the threat, he reached into his pocket. Opening his newly retrieved wallet, he cringed at the nearly barren state of it. After paying the bills and providing food for the girls, this pitiful display of three crumbled up fives was all he had till (Extra space)pay day. "I'll do you one better." He practically had to force the words to form on his tongue, "I'll buy your lunch." Ichigo had never bought a girl who wasn't his sister anything, especially not food, so he knew he had reached a whole new stratum of desperation. _'Well, there goes dollar taco night_. _'_ He cringed. Still, cheap, unadulterated, bliss was the price he'd pay to not have Uryu great him daily with, _'Hey, Yoko Ono, ruin any bands today?'_

Seemingly pacified, the girl interlocked their arms and said, "Now we're getting somewhere."

Doing a slight inward victory dance, Ichigo kept with his momentum. "So," he pried, "What do you think about the band?" As they walked, her face looked thoughtful and somewhat torn while she contemplated a response. Noticing the glare, Ichigo cajoled, "I know I can be a little pushy, but if you're too busy or just don't want to, I get it."

On the contrary, the girl had been looking for something like this to come her way, and in the form of blinding orange hair, it knocked right into her. It got lonely playing by herself, especially because the bass was an instrument that sounded the best when paired with others. Working by herself was only impeding her progress and her social skills. More so, this guy seemed nice enough, awkward and a little weird, but in a charming way. Plus, she didn't get the 'I need to hide my drink from you,' vibes from him, like she did with so many other guys. Still her brother and herself had come to an agreement that she could play music as long as it didn't get in the way of her being the perfect debutante their father had molded her into. Well, he must've had Parkinson's, because she was about as refined as a trailer park. Despite this, she revered her brother wholeheartedly, understanding that his concerns stemmed from a good place. That's why he allowed it as long as her marks stayed up, but with stipulations. one of those stipulations being that she couldn't spend too much time on it, and because of that, being in a band seemed out of the question.

' _What Brother doesn't know won't kill him, right?'_ she reasoned, _'I mean, as long as my grades stay up, what harm could it really do? I really want this.'_ Shaking her head, she reassured, "No, actually I'd love too. It's just… shouldn't you listen to me before you go around offering me a spot in your band?"

The audacious Ichigo ruffled his hair awkwardly before giving a manly chuckle. "Yeah," he agreed, "I can get really ahead of myself. I'm pretty much that brazen all of the time." Now finding themselves in line at the taco truck, he said, "How about we back it all the way up, and just start with your name."

With her hands quaking from low blood sugar, the girl dubiously bit her lip before she answered resolutely. "Rukia, just Rukia."

Cocking an eyebrow at the ambiguity of the girl's answer, Ichigo decided he liked this girl, if only for how unboring she was. Smiling brilliantly, he greeted, "Okay, just Rukia, it's nice to meet ya'."

 **xXx**

Located in a crepuscular cornerstone, situated between a Seven-Eleven and the not-so-friendly neighborhood trap house, in a part of town where you didn't go alone unless you had a gun, mace, or some mad martial arts skills, was a building where magic happened. Amongst the deafening cacophony of steel guitars and alto saxophones, and the commingled pungency of beer, cigarette smoke, and regurgitated Mexican food, was the integration of all paths of life. From Death-Core Metal junkies, to middle-aged men soothing their midlife crisis with their dead-head cover bands, and to rockabilly swingers, any with the soul for music and a hundred bucks could fester amongst the debauchery. Age, gender, race, or sexual orientation, it didn't matter, because they were all the same on a base level; all having a little zealot rock star, a sea urchin to society, and an angsty artist locked up inside, ready to release their pent up woes through the banging of guitar strings. It was a place where social norms went to die and the little anarchist inside could run free without the fear of ruining lives. It didn't matter what it was, whether it was 'my wife just doesn't understand me' or 'my parents just don't understand me, or even, 'my parole officer just doesn't understand me', this ran down shanty was the domicile to a finite amount of emotion.

Surely, when predecessors like Ray Charles and Bob Dylan were working so hard to desegregate music, it was likely they weren't imagining a group of ruffians sharing a joint under the flicker of some florescent light, surrounded by electric blue walls varnished with crude sayings and misspelt song lyrics, right before they went to play their rendition of 'A Friend of the Devil.' Alas, the dream was alive and semi-well.

They called this pit of depravity, simply, 'The Box.' Calling it a building was probably an insult to architectures of all kinds, for the framework was shot, and nails would fall from the ceiling at the reverberation of amps. This antisocial club housed fifteen different rooms that acted as studios, each to be rented out to a different band. Over all, the business seemed pretty legit, but the hands-off anything-goes rule caused it to seem less like a studio and more like a half-way house for the ostracized and musically inclined. On any given day, you could go to The Box and find members, even without their bands, loitering, swindling cigarettes, having in-depth conversations about their favorite anime, or avoiding their homes and just doing homework, as if the clamor of half-baked punk cover songs lulled them into a state of tranquility. Yes, among the hole-covered walls and empty vending machines were the safe zones of many.

On this particular night, in the room closest to the back, the pulsations and vociferousness of pounding drums could be felt throughout the walls. After playing his newly worked on drum solo, Ikkaku ceased the rhythmic swaying of his dome, which was now glistening with beads of his manly juices. Before chugging his water down quickly, as if he was trying to give a physical demonstration on osmosis, he asked, "How was it?"

Trying not to trip over the carelessly interweaving of aux. cords and strewn beer cans, Renji made his way to the piss yellow Goodwill steal of a couch, the cigarette burns and unidentifiable stains giving it character. Plopping his feet down on a broken down amp that their hoarder of a lead singer had refused to throw away, Renji put on a smirk and quipped, "Well, you're no Jon Bonham, but you're pretty good." Ladies and gentlemen, music lovers alike, none could ever be the late Jon Bonham, similar to how there will truly only be one Beyoncé. Though, in the guide to bro-hood that Renji lived by, all compliments came with an ample amount of shit talk attached to it. This rule was right beside 'A bro should never start a sentence with "Hashtag."' Truly, it was their peculiar way of saying, 'I love you, bro.'

"Tch-" The cock-sure Ikkaku smacked his gums harder than a bratty teenage girl. "Yeah, I'm better," he chortled before moving to grab another bottle of water.

"Yea, and I'm the fucking reincarnation of Jimmy Hendrix," Renji spat caustically before kissing his fingers and placing them towards a poster of the late guitarist situated above his head, as if to pay homage.

Uryu was flipping through a text book that he was pretty sure was heavier than his keyboard. At how dexterously and quickly he burned through the pages, one might assume that he was one of the legion of Adderall-stuffed students surviving on legalized amphetamines and caffeine. However, the straight-laced kid made school seem like a walk in the park. He could run through trigonometry worksheets like they were the Sunday crossword puzzle and could read at the speed of a super computer. A total certified Brainiac. His bandmates and friends would throw their pride at his feet and call him 'Prince Ishida,' if he'd only proofread their papers.

It wasn't until his face was saved by his book from the mercy of a flying drumstick that Uryu realized Ikkaku had been talking to him. His ability to be completely absorbed to the point of aloofness was probably why so many people thought he was arrogant, but truthfully, he was too arrogant to care what people thought.

The ball of wild energy boisterously threw up his stick-wielding hand before asking, "Well, what did you think?"

Between thoughts on what sushi roll he wanted to buy for dinner and remembering he needed to return a library book, Uryu's preoccupied mind somehow absorbed the question. His voice was so detached that he might as well have been talking about badminton or something else he found dreadfully boring. "Oh, you were playing something?"

The pineapple-esque haired guitarist was taking a good laugh at Ikkaku's expense as the man's lustrous head bulged with veiny frustration. Before another air-borne drumstick could assault Uryu's textbook, a reprimanding voice could be heard coming through the door.

"Hey, no flying drumsticks! We respect our instruments. If you want to beat up Uryu, do it with your own hands."

Hearing the lecturing coming from their lead singer and guitarist, almost instinctively, Renji whipped his head to commence his shit talking. "So how did it go wiiit-," almost as if he was experiencing a stroke, his speech slurred and his gaze became fixated on the petite ball of nerdy cuteness situated beside Ichigo.

After a fugacious moment of unyielding and rather creepy staring, Ichigo snapped his fingers. He loved his dopey friend, but the way he became a gawky bumbling idiot around the opposite sex was too embarrassing to watch. "Hey," he snapped, before pausing momentarily to glare back and forth between Renji's paralyzed moments and Rukia awkwardly looking at everything but him. "Well, I was going to say, eyes up here," he pointed to Rukia's face, then gave an impartial glare towards her chest, "but she doesn't really have anything." Yes, just because Ichigo was capable of talking to girls, didn't meant he was very good at.

"Hey!" Rukia scolded, instinctually crossing her lithe arms over her mosquito bite-marred chest. "Is that how you introduce all the girls you bring to this place?" Pfffh- the only girl who had seen their man cave in all its glory was the beautiful Stevie Nicks, her legend forever entombed on an eight by eight poster that was situated on the ceiling. Poor Stevie, her chaste eyes falling victim to all the gross idiosyncrasy that lent itself to the bands testosterone-filled rowdiness.

Ichigo held his arms up placidly and cajoled, "It's okay, I'm gay."

"Not the point," she spat.

Finally, Renji remembered what words were and how to form them. Trying to recover from his creepiness, he tried to say something that wasn't completely awkward. He fell back on his instincts: shit talk. "Yeah," he noted, still avoiding her gaze as if it would turn him into stone. "You probably wouldn't have guessed, since he never dates anyone."

Quickly, the singer quipped back, "Hey, at least I _chose_ to be single." After letting his insult soak in, he added, "Besides, just because I'm not a one may gay pride float doesn't mean anything." It always perplexed the youth why being gay seemed to be synonymous with being flamboyant or feminine. He could contest that taking it up the rear was not for the faint of heart, and when guys were asking him out, it was because of his chiseled manly body, not because he spent time making sure his outfit highlighted his eyes. He could still be the same pugnacious, brazen, smart mouth, sports-loving bro while still having a deep-seated desire to know what the inside of Byakuya Kuchiki's mouth tasted like.

Now sitting back in his chair, idly spinning a drumstick between his fingers, Ikkaku asked rather contemptuously, "So who's the chick?"

Uryu set down his book and shook his head disparagingly at his boorish bandmate. Standing up and walking to the girl, he was the first to address her properly. The girl couldn't help but throw the man a rather dubious glare. He was like looking at a diamond among rocks, very crude and awkward rocks at that. It was like one of those 'what doesn't belong here' books come to life, a personification of the rolling pin in the bathroom. More so, the other three looked like they had challenged each other to the death over the last box of salvageable Goodwill clothes, all wrinkly and disheveled, whereas he looked like a Banana Republic model. Handsome and scholarly, his blue striped button-up was tucked into dark fitted denim and a cream colored blazer to wrap it up. She wasn't sure if he was a part of the band or one of these ruffians' parole officers. "Please excuse Ikkaku, he has a brain tumor that makes him abjectly rude. I'm Uryu Ishida."

Being the sister of Byakuya Kuchiki, sarcasm was a language of its own, but not knowing him, his deadpan voice made her gape her eyes slightly in Ikkaku's direction.

Feeling irate, Ikkaku's face melted into a 'you have to be kidding me' glare. "I don't have a brain tumor," he said flatly, "Uryu just has a very dry and morbid sense of humor, and," he boomed his accusatory words towards the well-dressed man, "THINKS IT'S FUNNY TO JOKE ABOUT PEOPLE HAVING TERMINAL ILLNESSES."

Like the supercomputer his brain was, he almost quipped before Ikkaku could even finish his griping, "Correction, I think it's funny to make jokes about _you._ "

"See how funny it is when I break those damn fingers," Ikkaku muttered.

At the empty threats, Renji teased caustically, "You know I always condone violence, but we need those fingers. Our _wonderful_ leader has already cost us one musician."

' _You screw up one time…'_ Ichigo cringed inwardly. Losing his dynamite short fuse, Ichigo boomed, "If you three idiots would shut your gobs for one second, I was getting to that!" At the momentary silence, he took this as nothing short of a miracle. "This is Rukia, she's here to audition." He turned to see the woman mindlessly running her fingers over a rack of CDs and records. While looking at the neglected dust-varnished cases like fossils of the groups' questionable music taste, she only half payed attention to the rant. "Unless these dumb asses have scared you away."

Using the pad of her index finger to pull out a long abandoned CD, she gave an impartial shrug of the shoulders before clarifying, "Nah, ya'll just seem like run of the mill idiots." Now holding up the CD and cocking an eyebrow, she teased, "What's scary is that someone in this room actually listened to 'Nickleback.'"

The girl's blasé humor earned a smirk before Renji bumbled out, smiling like a teenage girl who'd just found out her crush was going to be her lab partner. "Sweet! Some of the best bands have had girl bassist, The Smashing pumpkins, the Pixies, it'll definitely-" Renji was an expert at letting his mouth out talk his brain, as if it was overcompensating for his nerve-caused paralysis. Before his brain caught him talking about something completely off topic, he cut himself off. Clearing his throat, he deepened his voice and shrugged his shoulders casually, "I mean, it'll be cool."

"I'm down," Ikkaku added, "It's too much of a sausage fest in here anyway." Straightening himself up slightly and puffing out his chest, he exclaimed, "But be warned, we'll tell you the way we told everyone else, we're not gonna change. If you're in the band, you're going to have to deal with us being loud and rowdy, drinking our weight in liquor, and random lightsaber battles."

"You gotta' have tough skin," Ichigo chimed in.

"Not to mention a tough nose," added Renji.

"Oh," Uryu advised, "and you'll need to work on your drumstick-dodging skills."

Rukia's heliotrope gaze of passiveness took a once over at the room cloyed with wires, beer bottles, and a staunch scent of what she could only assume was tobacco, old take out, and the pungent bodily releases caused by the poor dietary choices of these three. Still she was rather unimpressed. Who did they think she was? Oh yeah, she hadn't told them her last name. Sister of Byakuya Kuchiki, daughter of the dean of students, she'd been bred for this shit. While her father had hoped that hours of etiquette class, strict schooling, and his regular patriarchal diatribes would lead her into being a well-mannered young lady who was capable of balancing a book on her head while she simultaneously gave birth barefoot, he would be utterly disgusted to see where those skills really came to play. The girl could break diamonds against her opalescent skin, in fact, the only thing tougher than Rukia were the callouses on her fingers. Yes, if her father was to see her now, if it wouldn't ruin his chichi Armani suit, his brain may have very well exploded.

With a roll of the eyes, she walked over to a mini fridge situated in the corner without word or explanation. She grabbed a Pabst out of the fridge before thinking, ' _Perhaps I can't change you guys, but maybe I can at least open you up to the world of good beer.'_ All to prove a point, she discarded her disgust for the wannabe hipster beer while pulling her keys from her pocket. The room was uncomfortably silently while they all gave Rukia their full attention, gauging the girl's odd actions. With her key, she stabbed a sizable hole through the aluminum before plugging it with her thumb. Popping open the top, she held the jagged metal to her lips as she opened her throat, allowing for the watered-down piss-brew to jaundice her strictly I.P.A. consuming lips. Within an instant, she gunned the beer dexterously before letting out a subhuman belch and throwing the can in a rarely used wastebasket.

After giving a finicky look of distaste, she let out a refreshed sigh and said with an air of superiority, "Who said I wanted to change you guys? I know I'm a girl, but come on guys, it's 2016, haven't we gotten past gender roles?"

Tempestuously, Renji's mouth spoke once more before his brain had time to stop the poor bastard. Causing an awe-inspiring bout of awkwardness that would be the linchpin to all Renji shit talk amongst the guys, he asserted, "I think I'm in love."

Rukia just gave a sweet chuckle while Renji tried to push his face so deeply into his palms that he'd disintegrate into nothing. After sharing a laugh at his expense, Ichigo cajoled him with a pat on the back. "Before you go writing any love songs, let's just hear her play."

As Rukia tuned up a bass in the corner, Uryu complimented, "Good going. Kurosaki, looks like you've managed to do something right. I guess I'll have to find something new to berate you about," he smirked playfully, "Knowing you, it shouldn't be difficult."

Ikkaku chimed in while lighting up a cigarette, "Yeah, I guess I'll stop using you for my ashtray."

Scowling halfheartedly, Ichigo replied bitingly, "How did I deserve such great friends? Truly, ya'll are killing me with the sentiments."

Without a hitch, like some bass goddess delivered from the heavens, Rukia performed every bass line the group threw her way with a look of tediousness, as if to say, this is all you got? As she slapped at the stringed instrument, a look of avid absorption glazed her orbs as if she was feeling the notes with every sense she had. Despite the way she'd look at the world in such a bromidic manner, one thing was certain, she had _the_ look, the look of complete captivation, as if the ceiling could be falling down around her - and in this building that's an honest to god possibility - and it wouldn't matter as long as she got out the last note of her melody. She was in.

After they spoke of semantics for a while, grasping the rehearsal schedule and giving her copies of the music, they did a short practice before it was time for Ichigo to head to his next class.

Ichigo yanked up the girl's toy-like hands and ran the pads of his fingertips slowly across her palms and fingertips, looking into them like some sideshow palm reader trying to conjure up some bull shit prophesy. The vibrant man's type of charisma was an acquired taste. Rukia wasn't use to guys randomly touching up on her without some lewd ulterior motive, so she had to contain her instinctual reaction to cock-punch him, mortal combat him right in his manhood. It was obvious Ichigo didn't understand those boundaries because he couldn't understand something he'd never even considered. No, Ichigo wanted to touch her hands in the purest way possible.

With a tentative look of curiosity, the boy pressed his leathery meticulous fingers into the callous-coated derma, comparing and contrasting, traversing the hands indurated by years of dedication. By just looking at her hands, he could see late nights and lonely days, he could see a person as resilient as their nimble fingers, a lifetime's worth of testimonies hidden behind vigorous patches of rock like skin. "You can tell a lot about a person by just looking at their hands," he chortled with a half grin, allowing their almost matching callouses to meet before he dropped the hands. "Every hand is like the summary to a much bigger story." He paused momentarily before assessing with a smirk, "You really love this, don't you? Despite that glacier glare you like so much, your hands tell all."

The skeptical girl cocked an eyebrow at the man. She wasn't sure if these were Ichigo's opinions or if he was just some wannabe poet, trying desperately to sound enlightened or artistic by spewing nonsensical bullshit. although, something about Ichigo's acquisitive eyes and naturally carefree blitheness made him seem like the most authentic person she'd ever met. Perhaps even the cheesiest of anapestic morsels held truth when they came from Ichigo's straightforward cognizant. From that day forward, she had a feeling they'd be friends. "It's a love-hate relationship, I guess. My brother taught me, so it will always hold a special place, but sometimes even the simplest of things can be complicated."

Recalling the images of her war torn hands, Ichigo noted, "Yeah, I figured. If you look at your hands, you can see that different parts have healed at different rates. so I figured you had to have quit for a few months."

' _This fucking guy, he could really tell how long I stopped playing by my hands? Maybe he isn't all talk and bullshit charm.'_

"What about your brother, does he still play?"

Biting her lip slightly, she thought of the right words, trying to maneuver her way around giving out to much information that could lead to the reveal of her secret identity and ultimately ruin her chances of being in the band. "No, not anymore. He's the most talented musician I've ever heard. He used to be singed and everything… but you wouldn't know him. Before he got too big, he had to stop… Some stuff came up."

Tilting his head curiously, he asked, "What happened?" At the girl once again biting her lip and averting her eyes, he picked up on her social cues. He was awkward, but not completely inept. "It's cool, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want. I mean, we're still practically strangers." With a brighter smile, he cajoled, "But I do hope that whatever took your brother away from music resolves itself. I bet it will; even when you try to give it up, if you truly love it, it always finds its way back to you no matter how far you run." Flashing his charismatic teeth once more, he concluded, "It's all a matter of time."

Before Rukia could respond, the strong brutish hand of Ikkaku found its way to Ichigo's shoulder. Gruffly, the man inquired, "Yo, you coming with me and Renji tonight? We're going out drinking."

Thinking about his empty wallet, Ichigo thought about guilting Ikkaku with his always handy bro card into buying his drinks. Nothing would get his mind off of his punch drunk love like watching Renji lie on the bathroom floor, belligerently singing into a bottle of sangria while he recanted the entire dialogue from the latest episode of Planet Earth. Despite his aloofness, Renji was quite the intellect and loved to watch documentaries about every subject, only to drunkenly reiterate his newest knowledge on the mating patterns of Golden Lion Tamarins to his equally blitzed friends.

When Ikkaku got wasted, he abandoned his chopsticks and scarfed down his weight in sushi like a starved orphan who'd never known the pleasure of fullness, only to later do his best grade school walrus impressions with the utensils. On the rarest of occasions that Uryu got drunk, Ichigo had to be there, for more than anyone, he was the most out of character. Perhaps he was already wound so tight with inhibitions and logical thought, that when liquor tainted that reasonable brain of his, it just couldn't compute. Uryu would put on old 'Color Me Bad' CD's and rap along, the cultivated timbre of his voice sounded so off with the vulgar hip hop jargon slurring from his mouth.

At the thought of Uryu abandoning his glasses and tumultuously yelling, 'fuck the police,' as he jumped up and down on their broken down couch, Ichigo turned to Ishida, "Are you going?"

Shaking his head back and forth, he said, "Nah, not tonight. I'm meeting Orihime after class for a date." Ichigo took a moment of silence to contemplate what he was doing with his life. The fact that Uryu was the least romantically challenged out of the four of them really spoke volumes on just how clueless the rest of them were.

With an impish grin, Renji sat back on the couch and moaned, "I can't believe you of all people are dating _her._ Wasn't she the most popular person at our high school? How did you meet her anyway?"

In the premise of every 90's RomCom, the ugly girl could be magically transformed into a beauty by merely scrunching her hair and investing in some contacts. Ishida was that ugly girl, so to speak. During high school, when he, Ichigo, and Renji had all just became friends, girls had never given Uryu the time of day, not that he'd ever seemed to care one way or the other. When he'd entered college, though not an iota of him changed, it seemed the standards set by an invisible panel of judges had changed the rules of what it meant to be cool. Now the distant, mysterious, too-good-for-you Ishida Uryu was a hot number to freshman and senior girls alike. As he continued to not care, they continued to eat it up, so vapid and self-important that they could only find worth in going after what they couldn't have.

Orihime was the exact opposite. The beauty was filled with an earnestness for her fellow man. Unlike most people who were merely for themselves, she was continuously about other people. Their stark differences was what drew him to her like a magnet.

"We took science together last semester. There was a lot of chemistry," he spoke flatly.

Rukia giggled and said, "Ah, I like puns."

With a slight smirk, he corrected, "Quite literally, there was a lot of chemistry." Slinging his bag over his shoulder to leave, he cocked an eyebrow, "Though once we started to talk about positive and negative ions, you could say there was quite an attraction."

His pun earned a bellowing laugh from Renji and a declaration of lameness from Ikkaku.

"I guess I'll just go home tonight. I know the girls don't need my there, with them getting older and all, but still, I haven't really spent much time with them lately," Ichigo concluded.

Deciding she wanted to know more about her new, weird, and charismatic friend, she decided to invite herself over. Interlacing their elbows, "I'm coming with," the saucy girl declared.

The blithe man simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "If you want to be bored, more the merrier."

With a chortle, she speculated, "Somehow I think Ichigo and boring are not synonymous."

As the two left out, only Renji and Ikkaku were left. Turning to his number one drinking companion, Ikkaku said, "Come on, let's go make bad decisions."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Please read the disclaimer! I'll respond to comments on the bottom. I hope you enjoy! :)**

 **Disclaimer: Hey readers, this is a Yumichika X Ikkaku chapter. Their story is the heavy part to this fan fiction. It's the part that will involve drug abuse and actual abuse later on. I am in no way trying to glorify these drug. I'm simply trying to give the most honest portrayal of drug use/drug abuse and tell a story about what it's like to love someone with an addiction. If this is to heavy for you, then I'd suggest not reading their part of the story because this is probably one of their lighter scenes in this fan fic. Mature readers only, please.**

 **SN: For my Byaichi lovers, their story will pick up next chapter. It moves a little slower than the Yumi X Ikkaku parts and isn't so heavy- though it still has it's drama. Even if you're not a fan of this pairing, If you can deal with the heavy content, I't's a really fun chapter.**

 **Please review/ favorite. Any support is paramount in my motivation to write!**

 **Good vibes!**

 **xXx**

" _Two black gadgets in her hands,_

 _all she thinks about._

 _No responsibility, no guilt, or morals to_

 _cloud her judgement_

 _Smile on her face,_

 _she does what she damn well please._

 _And she don't care about the things people used to do._

 _And she don't care that what she does has an effect on you._

 _She's got freedom in the 21st century" - Jack White "Freedom at 21"_

 **xXx**

 **I've Just Seen a Face**

 **xXx**

Like a wave of drug-induced heathens, a countless amount of fevered and exposed limbs flailed and gyrated to the _thump-thump_ of vociferous techno remixes. Like how the moon controlled the tides, this comingling of robotic and harmonic melodies guided the movements of the perked and moist bodies, all relying on the nonexistent personal space to keep themselves from slipping on the liquor and sweat varnished dance was one misstep away from being trampled by a stampede of gay men. It would be like a reimagined scene of when Mufasa died in the Lion King, only instead of antelopes, it'd be a brigade of grinding body parts, an orgy-filled sea to overcome by their ecstasy pills and the newest Beyoncè single to care about the lost soul.

Butts were grinding on groins, groins on track-marked arms, some positions even testing the limits of aerodynamics, like navels grinding on shoulders. It was an acrobatic act of intimacy; every shred of personal space that people held in their daily lives went out the door. It was just an abstract concept that ceased to exist within the lust-filled blob. Every day Joe's, doctors, college students, queens, and drug fiends, all strangers, sharing in this visceral animalistic act of rubbing their most prized body parts together. The same queen who would smack his gums at the college student who accidentally bumped into him, the same doctor who would secretly judged that drug fiend and nonchalantly kept a five foot barrier between the two of them, had marooned all social standards to engage in this lucid felicity. Here, on the dance floor, they were no longer their titles, but pulsating vessels of hedonism.

Renji glared at the intermingling of appendages, some of the blob shamefully tugging at each other's half exposed derma like they were playing a game of sex chicken, a transitory moment of penetration away from indulging in a full blown act of exhibitionism, and since the bouncers seemed about as useful as the decorative pillars that lined the club, they may have not been stopped. He didn't want to glare, but it was like watching a car accident or seeing a dead bird; some morbid atavistic part of his psyche wouldn't let him look away.

Beside him stood a shirtless lithe man, the club's lights hitting his pectorals, burnished with sweat in such a fashion that he looked as if he'd been attacked by a bedazzler. His tongue was running a mile a minute - no doubt it was cocaine-induced loquaciousness. He scrupulously detailed to his companion the grimy, and frankly unsanitary act of sexual bathroom-stall debauchery that he'd just tangled in. He boasted about the rim job he had just received, as if it was the gay club equivalent to earning a promotion. Before he'd only been offered trifling blowjobs, but now, with hard work and dedication, he'd moved up the proverbial latter.

At the self-aggrandizing, Renji thought, _'I wonder what a rim job is? Is it some gay thing or am I just too much of sexless newb to get it?'_ For a moment, he thought about asking the gayest guy he knew, Ichigo, but then thought, ' _Fuck that, if it is something gay, he'll think I'm like coming out to him or something, and if it's just some normal sex thing, it'll just give him more ammo. He already gives me shit for being as sexually inept as a middle schooler.'_

He concluded that he probably _didn't_ want to know, for he could do without any more unsolicited images of this jewel-festooned, hot-to-trot stranger in compromising positions. He was a mixture of grossed out and annoyed at his train of thought, then he remembered who bought the ticket to this specific train, the reason his brain was on a one way trip to gay coitus town.

Beside him, his back also leaning against the crowded bar, Ikkaku's astringent glare was fixated on something unbeknownst to Renji as he idly spun his beer in his hand, only occasional taking gulps, almost in a robotic fashion. His unmovable Hannibal Lector glare was almost as concerning as to why Ikkaku had chosen this animalistic sausage-fest to get plastered at, which Ikkaku was failing at miserably. Since Ikkaku consumed more alcohol than a bored housewife, this was Renji's greatest concern.

Luckily, the bar was close enough to the back that you could talk without causing permanent damage to your vocal chords. Throwing the zoned-out man an aslant look, Renji asked bluntly, "Is this your way of coming out to me or something?"

Finally, this broke the sudden spurt of hypnosis. Either there were subliminal messages in the music or Ikkaku was on some creeper level thirty-three shit, but whatever the reason, his usual affronted face had returned and pointed towards Renji. Scoffing, he said, "Don't ask me stupid shit like that. I ain't Kurosaki."

' _I'm not gay. Shit, at least I wasn't. I mean- It's like I'm gay for one guy. Theres a difference… I think,'_ he reasoned inwardly. Ikkaku had never been attracted to men, and despite what they tell you in high school, college, at least for him, wasn't filled with exploration- or whatever the fuck that meant. Apparently college was about transforming into a Christopher Columbus of depravity and self-identity, yet Ikkaku had pretty much been the same guy he'd always been: not a simpleton, but never too complex, single minded, determined, somewhat disinterested in anything unless it involved banging sticks against percussions, and despite looking like he knew his way around a female body, he could probably give better instructions on how to get to the moon. It wasn't as if all carnal pleasures eluded him, he was just a man after all, only they were never important, always on the backburner for more relevant things.

In the midst of Ikkaku's sexual revelations, Renji poised with a chortle, "Well it just looked like you were enjoying the scenery, ya' know?"

Before taking a sizable swig of his beer, as if the alcohol could drown this new part of himself, Ikkaku explained, "I have my reasons for being here."

It wasn't like Ikkaku had a problem with the strange attraction; it was just surprising. It was comparable to finding out you'd been adopted when you were an adult. You feel betrayed by your parents, deceived by the people you trusted most, but after that betrayal dissolves, it was replaced with a tenacious curiosity. Now you have this whole new facet, a completely unexplored idiosyncrasies. Only, this curiosity wasn't towards men but one _man_. Him. He wanted to know him.

Renji looked back up to his friend, whose salient glare was once again focused amidst the tenebrosity, the seizure-like movement of the dancers only highlighted by rheumatic flashes of laser-like lights. Though it wasn't a look of lust, it was a look of intrusiveness, pure curiosity, a look Renji had never seen Ikkaku wear, one he wasn't even sure he owned.

Being that Renji was minoring in psychology, he thought he was a regular Sigmund Freud, only without all the cocaine and the weird Opedius-complex stuff. Though it turned out his friends didn't exactly like being psychoanalyzed, but just for the sake of annoying the shit out of Ikkaku, who it annoyed the most, he would smugly probe his friend's actions.

Before Renji could begin to unfold his friend's odd behavior, a guttural yet whimsical voice sounded off from behind the two, "Oh, I bet I know who caught his attention."

Spinning around at the same time, they saw that the bar was momentarily empty, and probably evanescently so. The bartender was tall and nimble, stunningly handsome and exuded a sociable ambiance. With his tongue in his cheek, he gave an amused smirk and a shake of the head, looking at Ikkaku as if to say 'oh, bless your heart.'

Still snickering, he pulled out two shot glasses, only to grab a bottle of whiskey and spin it like he thought this was 'Coaty Ugly' or something. Ikkaku watched, rather unimpressed, still sneering at the scrupulous comment. Pouring the blood-warming elixir into the shot glasses, he mused, "If I had a dime for every one of you poor saps." He shook his head mockingly, giving a scoff. Sliding the shots in front of the men, he quipped, "I'd still be poor, but at least I'd get payed to have to witness such a tragedy."

Truly, it was Ikkaku's instinctual pugnaciousness that would often be the cause of the hot headed man handling cheeky bastards in more intimidating ways. Who ever said violence isn't the answer obviously had never seen Ikkaku shut up a group of loud mouth punks with the sheer fury of his punch, though his new obtained fondness for espionage was making him unusually tamed.

Seeing Ikkaku didn't immediately take the shot just to spit it back in the guy's face, Renji knew something was wrong. Very wrong. _'Holy shit, the world is ending, the stars have aligned, the hell mouth is opening up, this is some Buffy the Vampire Slayer season five shit.'_

Ikkaku set his jaw and took the shot, gulping it down bitterly before he said in a constrained voice, "Well then don't look," and slammed down the glass fiercely.

The way the bartender and Ikkaku talked in this vague way, like they had shared some kind of weird telepathic connection, made Renji feel like he'd missed some vastly important piece to the puzzle. Narrowing his brow at the man, Renji asked matter of factly, "So are you going to tell me who you've been eye hustling all night or am I going to have to ask this guy?" he nodded towards the impish bartender, who was soaking up Ikkaku's snarl like it was a dollar jello shot.

Before Ikkaku could respond, the meddlesome and obviously impatient barkeep nodded his head towards the other side of the room. "That hot little number. He's as sexy as the devil himself." Cocking an eyebrow and biting his lip in an overtly sexual manner, he added, "And as conniving as him too," he winked. "You're not the first love stricken fool to wander in, and you won't be the last." Shrugging his shoulders, he speculated, "I guess it's just something about him. Those vibes he exudes are sinful, but sin is captivating, right?" This time he winked at Renji, who blushed heavily despite himself. "We sure are lucky to have Yumichika, or DJ Chika, as we call him."

Renji gaze quickly vacillated between the bartender, Ikkaku, and the man standing in the DJ booth, who was only made barely visible by random flashes of iridescent lights. He did this a few times, as if he was still trying to piece together a puzzle.

But Renji was no Nancy Drew and quickly grew irate at trying to fill in all the things Ikkaku wasn't saying. "Look dude, I'm your bro, and that means if you want to stand here and be all creepy and glare, I'll stand right here with ya' and glare too." This actually gave Ikkaku the slightest of smirks. "But at least do me the decency of telling me what we're glaring at." Shaking his head, feeling slightly offended his friend hadn't mentioned liking someone, he added, "This is the type of shit you tell your friends. Where'd you meet him at anyway?"

Renji talked about it like it was some simple confession. He might as well have asked him to put on tights and do his best rendition of Swan Lake; both equally would tear at his inflated pride. Still Renji, who at times was Ikkaku's complete opposite, would tell him every time the cute girl who worked at the frozen yogurt shop – the same one who'd rejected Renji last semester – would smile and wave in his direction. He was a complete sap, a total leave flowers by your door way- love song writing - RomCom watching- sap. If Renji was willing to shell out the money, he'd probably buy a boom box and an old school car just to pull a John Cusack outside of some poor girl's window. More so, he supposed it wasn't okay for him to ignore his drinking buddy for practically a whole night without reason.

Clenching his fist until it tingled with numbness, Ikkaku spat out the words like they were arsenic. "I-well, I haven't exactly met him." At this, the bartender, who was idly listening and drinking from a bottle of water, gave a burst of hysterical laughter, spewing water all over his deep black V-neck. Black V-necks were like the equivalent to the little black dress for gay men, a total staple that any testosterone-filled cocksucker _had_ to have amongst their garments, at least according to the bartender. As he wiped his shirt viciously, Ikkaku spat, "Why are you even still listening? Dontcha' have a fucking job to do or something?"

A smile stretched his perfectly chiseled features as he ran his fingers through his golden brown coiffure, exhibiting himself like some kind of Persian God. "I _am_ doing my job," he reasoned, "Everyone knows you're supposed to tell the barkeep your troubles."

Ikkaku, try as he might, couldn't imagine anyone nursing their eight dollar mix drinks with tears, speaking over club music to tell this guy the woes of their life. Just as much as he couldn't imagine this guy giving out any sincere counseling. He could see it now, 'Oh, your boyfriend dumped you? Well you're lucky you met me, let's get you drunk and laid, this is the perfect place'. Yeah, Ikkaku wasn't in the market for this guy's particular brand of help, though he did seem to know Yumichika pretty well. At least he presented himself as so, and if Ikkaku wanted to graduate from leery creepiness to actual face to face contact, he may need the help of this guy. Perhaps he just seemed abrasive, but underneath, he was the liquor-serving Yoda of the gay universe.

"I haven't met him yet! There! Okay, I said it, but it's not like I'm fucking stalking him or something," he assured in an irritated voice. Confessional would be easier; at least he could hide his face from the shame behind a flimsy divider. It made him yearningly reminisce on the times his father had _made_ him go as a child where Ikkaku had to make up fraudulent confessions, like fighting the next door neighbor or saying fuck in the grocery store.

"I was at school, and I heard something about this really good DJ who'd been hired to play at a bunch of parties lately. I heard he did a lot of his work in the back of the library, and-and-I didn't really think about it, but I needed to go to the library. So-"

"Wait," Renji threw his friend a weird look, "You don't go to the library." He poked holes in Ikkaku's crumbling story, almost smirking at the momentary gape of his face

As quickly as a rubber band, Ikkaku's face snapped back to a constrained pissed-off-ness as he bellowed, "WELL I DID THAT DAY." Both Renji and the bartender allowed him to think whatever he liked as they listened attentively to Ikkaku's epic yarn of love. "Anyway, I saw him there and I couldn't find the fucking balls to talk to him. He was just so- so… "

"Sexy?" the bartender said bluntly, as if it was the key to Ikkaku's bout of tongue-tiedness.

Grunting slightly, Ikkaku responded, "In his own world. I don't know… I didn't want to interrupt that, so I sat in the library and did my homework."

"You mean stalk?" Renji teased, neither him nor the bartender able to contain their hysteria this time.

"If you fucking two don't shut your pie holes, I'm not telling you shit," Ikkaku threatened, which was the supplication to his pleads. Renji's face gaped placatingly at the notion of losing such a precious and juicy morsal of Ikkaku's inner pathos. This was the Black Opal of disclosures and Renji would sooner give up playing for a month than lose this momentum.

"He was in there for as long as I was… which was a pretty long time," he muttered, burrowing his head in his hands, hoping they didn't catch that last part, but they did. At this point, the bartender was helping some costumers, but still within earshot, thinking this was juicier than the gossip that flew around the dressing room of the drag queens who performed there. "I found his music on soundcloud, and it was amazing… This stuff is good, but ya' know, it's club stuff. His other stuff was just out there, but it's the best way."

"Yeah, I know you've always been into instrumental-focused bands more so than other stuff, like Kavinsky, Ratatat, or Nightmares on Wax," Renji noted.

"Yeah, and his music was just so ominous, like you felt like you were in horror movie, but it had this Trip-Hop flare that made it really danceable. It's pretty unique. So I wanted to catch him out in his zone, ya' know, and I was like fucking hypnotized or something," he grunted halfheartedly before he continued, "I couldn't talk to him. I tried to go back to the library, but every time I'd just blank on what to say, so I just left and decided to come back tonight an-" As Ikkaku spoke, he truly realized just how creepy he sounded, like a peeping tom, put-the-lotion-on-the-skin-type creepy. He was already watching him at school, coming to his job, what next? Following him home? To the grocery store? How far could this rabbit hole of leering go before Ikkaku's actual balls grew into metaphorical balls.

Despite what hit one hundred songs like, 'hotline bling' or most yaoi manga in the world will lead you to think, being obsessive, jealous, or stalker-ish was not a good thing nor was it cute or a sign or affection. It's creepy and it's unhealthy, and Ikkaku was done. He would talk to man tonight if it was the last thing he did, even if it was just for the sake of his own moral compass.

The bartender placed down another shot in front of the man, who was now trying to magically disappear within the clutches of his brawny arms, abjectly slinging his arms across the bar like some drunk who'd had one to many tonics. At the sound of the liquid sloshing in front of him, Ikkaku thought, _'Sweet fucking relief.'_ Why wasn't he drinking again?

As he chugged it down, hoping it would be the poison to kill this feeling of utter scumminess, or at least help give him courage, the barkeep cajoled, "We're not judging. We've all been there," leaning his elbows on the bar, perching his pointed chin on his entwined fingers.

"It's normal to stalk someone?" Ikkaku asked flatly.

"Ikkaku," Renji gave a knowing glare and asked, "How many times a week did I go and get frozen yogurt last semester?"

Despite hating himself for knowing the answer to that, Ikkaku responded honestly, "Like three?"

With a light chuckle, Renji confessed, "I don't even like frozen yogurt, Ikkaku."

If he thought this little admission of truth would help, he was wrong. Ikkaku merely groaned a lengthy groan and said, "Fuck, that just means you're creepy too. That just means I'm turning into _you_. I rather be fucking Ishida, for Christ's sake."

Glaring at his inept friend, Renji began to clarify, "What I _mean_ is-"

The barkeep took the liberty to explain for him. "What he means is, when you really like someone and you can't figure out how to talk to them, it's normal to want to see them. I mean, come on, who hasn't gone to the work place of someone they like just hoping to see them at least _once_. That's kid's stuff, man. It's just, there's a very fine line between a healthy dose of curiosity and being a creepy stalker." Pointing at the man, as if to drive his point home, he said, "Take it from a guy whose had a lot of stalkers, you're teetering on quite the tightrope. It's when you keep doing this and progressing deeper that it's an issue. Don't worry, as long as you don't start following him home or around campus or figuring out his work schedule or-"

"Calling his house and hanging up, slashing his tires, killing his dog, you know, the real stalker stuff," Renji added humorously. He'd seen one too many movies.

Rolling his eyes at the goofy cherry bomb, the bartender finished, "Then you'll be fine."

Was this true? Was there some kind of unspoken allotted amount of creepy behavior people were allowed to engage in before it became socially unacceptable? Did the vast majority of people just silently agree upon these invisible decrees and go on with their voyeuristic ways, stalking their crush's social media pages or walking an extra five minutes out of the way to their next class, all in hopes to see the one person they'd become infatuated with? When compared to what the other two men called 'real stalker' stuff, it really did seem so innocent. Ikkaku had never truly liked anyone before, so he couldn't say for sure. Though this Calvin Klein looking guy didn't seem like he ever creeped on anyone, and if he did, it was probably consensual.

Ikkaku let out a loaded sigh. He hadn't even met the guy and he was already reeling. At the huge beaming grin his friend was throwing him, Ikkaku grunted, his voice irate yet lackluster, "What?"

Renji looked effervescent with giddiness. You'd think this guy was the one with the crush. The way his big toothy grin consumed his goofy face, he looked almost as high as the jaunty tongue-tied club goers. "So you really _are_ gay!" It was a declaration, not a question. Renji had about as much tact as a five year old who'd just learned what the word shit was.

Curbing the urge the knock Renji's head into the bar and ruin the very handsome barkeep's shirt with blood, Ikkaku bellowed, "Is that all you got from that? You fucking moron."

While the barkeep muttered something about Ikkaku's vulgar vernacular, Renji asked, "Then what?" all wide-eyed and enthused.

' _Geez, this guy,'_ Ikkaku cringed inwardly.

You see, that was the thing about Renji, even if it annoyed the shit out of Ikkaku, he couldn't get angry about Renji's over the moon reaction because that was Renji's best peculiarity. While he and the other guys in the band could often be detached in their own distinct ways, at times emitting an ethereal gleam that was birth from their idiosyncratic music-filled brains, Renji was quite the opposite. He was so present in everything, so excitable, buoyant, and goofy, and the band couldn't help but to admire him for that. So even while it bugged Ikkaku at times, it was Renji and his quirks, so it couldn't be helped. 

Ikkaku really had no way of explaining himself without sounding cheesy. Anything he could say about the phenomenon would sound like it was straight out of some mushy John Hughes movie where the beautiful popular girl falls head over heels for the reserved nerd. Or in Ikkaku's case, the captivating DJ falling in love with the leery brute. He really did have to go to the library that day, he didn't even remember nor care about the rumors of this elusively beautiful DJ. That was until he found himself shuffling through old discarded magazines, in need of a specific article for a report he had to do, and then he saw him. It was The Beatles hit song "I've Just Seen a Face" come to life. His world turned into a giant cliché, time morphed, a fire cracker display filled his cornea, a roller coaster was zooming through his abdomen and doing somersaults in his chest cavity. Everything that wasn't supposed to happen in real life had happened to him.

Why? Why Yumichika? Ikkaku believed in love at first sight about as much as he believed in Santa Claus. Love is endurance, not chemical reactions. Perhaps he believed in extreme infatuation at first sight, but that still left the opaque and much agonized question of 'why Yumi?' Of course, he was beautiful and had this sultry look about him, but Ikkaku had seen plenty of beautiful people, and he wasn't impressed. Call it some visceral pheromone thing, soul resonance, or what have you, but something about Yumichika was everything his young, drum-drunk mind had never known it wanted.

The rapid firing of synapses had caused him to sit a few tables down from Yumichika, pull out his laptop, and do work on his paper right there, which Ikkaku never did, because libraries gave him the creeps. Hours passed and Yumichika couldn't be bothered. He worked with single-minded determination, so engaged and focused in the most intense way. It was almost sensual, his avid voracity, just wanting, no, _needing_ to create, as if it would make every shitty thing that happened in the world okay. War, famine, environmental crisis, it all seemed trifling in the face his melodiousness. After listening to his music, a harmonic extension of Yumichika's soul, Ikkaku had almost blushed at the intimate feeling he got, for such emotion was imbued from his art. In the end, Ikkaku was the one filled with voracity.

That look of single-minded intimate intensity was not foreign to him or to his other band members. In fact, it was the reason he and Kurosaki had even beoame friends and band mates. When Ikkaku has just moved to this town for school, he'd constantly played in his apartment building, ignoring the screams and knocking of broom sticks to tell him to shut it down. When Ichigo had come to his door, Ikkaku had thought it was another pain in the ass neighbor that he'd have to intimidate with his snarl. Only, Ichigo had shown up with his guitar and had introduced himself as his neighbor. He'd said he admired his love for music, that he wanted to jam. Ikkaku had never experienced that before, someone who appreciated his audaciousness and migraine-causing incessant drumming. Before Ichigo and the gang had come along, his only friends in that new town had been his drums, and he hadn't cared. That's how Ichigo was though. Like most eccentric artist, he was tortured by being stuck in his own frantic brain. He constantly observed everything while internalizing it, turning it into inspiration, but because of that, he had an authentic understanding and blitheness towards other people. Yet, while that was how Ichigo was, that was not how Yumichika was.

In the days that followed, Ikkaku went to the library a few times and worked on his homework, and every time, Yumichika was alone for hours, almost like he was avoiding the outside world. He looked alone much like Ikkaku had before he met the band, solitary and content, not even knowing how lonely he really was. From listening to the man's music, he got a taste of his mind, only to realize he had been starving this whole time.

Still, there was no way he was going to say that to Renji. He'd sooner sell his soul to the devil before he gave that giddy bastard a year's worth of shit-talking material. "I don't know," he shook his head indignantly, "It's just something about him that really draws me towards him."

Renji gave a pointed glare and pursed his lips as if he was judging the validity of his friend's statement. "But he makes you feel, ya' know," he asked, wiggling his eyebrow all suggestively, "inside?"

"I don't know even know what that stupid eyebrow thing means and I still know that's not how I feel," he bellowed at the gesture. Pinching the bridge of his nose tightly, he confessed, "Yes, Renji, god damn, I find him attractive. Is that what you want me to say?"

"Yes," Renji answered, placing his arms across his strapping chest, smiling victoriously like he'd just fought his bandmates to near death for the last piece of pizza and won.

"Overcoming denial is the first step to recovery, ya know," teased the barkeep.

Renji slung an arm around his friend and shook him vigorously. It was utterly embarrassing, because all he'd done was grasp a normal human emotion. It was like a proud parent boasting when their child did the most fundamental of things, like being able to piss in the toilet by themselves. He gave a silly grin to the barkeep and enthused, "This is a big deal! Ikkaku's never liked anyone before." He pretended to wipe away fraudulent tears and mockingly said, "I knew one day my boy would become a man."

Ikkaku took no time in shoving Renji off of him and grousing, "God, could you be any more fucking humiliating, Renji?" He really did sound like a child who was getting embarrassed by their gushing parent.

Instead of his usually tongue-in-cheek sassiness, the beautiful face was disturbed with a slight gape of his features. It looked so odd on him, sort of disturbingly peculiar, like a clown with a giant frown. After a moment of glaring, he questioned, "Never? You've never liked anyone else?"

Still abjectly smiling, not really phased by the off look, Renji took the liberty of responding for him. "Nope!"

The barkeeper's manly pronounced Adam's apple moved across the girth of his neck like an accordion as he swallowed deep, catching his breath slightly. His eyes became warmer, flooded with an ephemeral moment of genuine empathy. Sighing deeply, his perfectly sculpted pectorals rising and falling in frustration, he explained, "Alright, this was all fun and games, but my morals won't let me watch such a poor sap get his heart stomped on." At the cocked eyebrows and perked ears of the two men, the barkeep placed his palms on the bar, leaning in closer. "Listen, Ikkaku, was it? Yumichika eats guys like you for breakfast. I'm not saying he's a bad person, honestly, I only know how he acts here, but here's what I also know," he declared, his crystal blue-green eyes surging with intensity, "Yumichika is vain, arrogant, and very dangerous. Completely rash. In fact, he'll only spend time with a guy if he can offer something. A thill, I mean, excitement, and he NEVER goes out with a guy more than once. Every weekend, it's the same, always searching for that next rush. He's the total live-fast die-young type. A guy like that doesn't care about your feelings, Ikkaku. He's one night of fun that'll just leave you wanting more."

"You make him sound like heroine or something," Renji half teased.

Cocking an eyebrow and with a lick of his perfectly pink lips, he countered, "He's worse. All the addiction with none of the pleasure."

With all the indignant anger that someone would expect out of a boyfriend, Ikkaku was ready to valiantly stand up for Yumichika's virtue, "What are you saying? Are you trying to call him a slut? What the fuck, I thought you were his friend?"

The bartender was unfazed; he almost scoffed at the rash tangent as he leaned in on his elbows, getting all up close and personal with Ikkaku's bubble, as if to call his bluff. He was poking the bear, the indignant love-sick bear. Leaning his pearly cheek on his manly yet lithe hand, he hummed thoughtfully. "I actually do like Yumichika, well," he rolled his eyes, "As much as I can like a DJ. I swear, they all have god-complexes. Up in their little box, secluded from everyone else, looking down with judgment as they control the flow of the evening." He scoffed and batted his long lashes across his silky well moisturized derma. "Ugh, bartenders are quite the opposite. Dogs and cats, I suppose, but that's beside the point. The point is, 'Chika is very fun, but that's all he is, at least when it comes to romantic interest. And I'm not calling him a slut, on the contrary, I'm," he paused for a moment, wanting to choose the right word, as if he truly was trying to not divulge to much about Yumichika.

"All I'm saying is, Yumichika knows what he wants and exactly how to get it. You may think I'm some cheeky queen who loves to gossip, but I only listen to gossip, I don't spread it. Don't mistake my pity as me being some sharp tongue shit-talker." With a deep sigh of resolution, he stood up straight and concluded, "If you don't believe me, spend five minutes with him. It's getting close to closing time, and Yumichika usually just puts on a playlist for the last thirty minuets so he can chose his next _victim_." He rolled his eyes while polishing some glasses, preparing for closing.

' _Victim? What is this guy saying? He's being pretty vague.'_

After a moment of contemplating the man's words with an austere face, Ikkaku disagreed, "No, there's more to him than that. Maybe he _is_ like that, but sometimes people just have to put on a different face."

The once goofy face now held a tinge of morose. The bartender could tell Renji didn't like the idea of Ikkaku's first genuine romantic feelings to be towards someone who could use them as a means to an end, spit in them like a tissue and then throw them away. Something like that could be poison to Ikkaku's capacity for affection, the ultimate aversion therapy, causing him pain at the peak of pleasure. Perhaps that's what caused this rather unromantic side of him to surface. "Sometimes what's on the surface is all there is. Sometimes people are just bad, point blank."

It wasn't a lie; some people were just hopeless. Some people just didn't care and never would. Life wasn't some manga where all the bad guys are just good guys muddied down by their tragedies, waiting desperately to be shown the error of their ways. Perhaps everyone had the capability of being a good person, but you have to want to be, and there were so many individuals who don't. Although, Ikkaku knew from past experience that people could be more complex than that. People's minds were intricate networks of crotchets, webbed together by their experiences. Some people use their surface layer as merely a means to cope with life or to put up walls. People are easily misconceived because most don't take the time nor effort to dig deeper, but like striking oil underneath the foundation, it's when you dig deep that your truly find the value in something. If Yumichika was truly as arrogant as this man said, then he wanted to discover why. He wanted to explore every last iota of experience and pain that made him as such, because within those iotas lay a person's true beauty. After listening to Yumichika's music, he was convinced that he was more than met the eyes.

Shortly and without must explanation, Ikkaku grunted, "I'll see for myself."

Talking to Ikkaku while keeping his flirtatious biting of the lip and glint of the eye on Renji, he chided, "Stop upsetting your friend, he only cares about you. Such a sexy face shouldn't look so sad." He rolled his tongue playfully, smirking slightly at the immediate crimson color - only outshone by the chroma of his hair - that filled Renji's cheek. His face was so flushed that it was noticeable underneath the dimly-lit bar lights. Ikkaku snickered at the feeling of his friend tensing up beside him; he had been harassed and embarrassed all night, let Renji have a taste. Renji could gorge his mouth with mortification seasoned with a zest of sexual befuddlement and just a dash of an identity crisis. _Eat it_ , Renji!

The floundering and abashed Renji, for some reason, forgot what to do with his hands as they started to sweat. Granted, he'd never really actively found many guys attractive, as he always preferred his rejection to come from women more so than men, but this man looked like the guy they'd hired to turn straight men gay, if ever a job existed. He'd never been hit on by anyone this hot, male or female, so his tongue pitifully tried to make words like he was playing a game of mad gab.

Rubbing his head awkwardly, he stuttered, "Th-h-anks." He gave an out of place chuckle. "I guess it's good to know I'm at least attractive in the gay world… not that it does me much good."

While Renji was bumbling on ambrosially, the bartender had pulled out a sucker from a secret stash he kept behind the bar. He clenched it softly between his teeth and swirled it with his tongue, lapping it in a painstaking display of nonchalant voluptuousness. It was as if he was trying to demonstrate the meticulous expertise that he'd gained through years of perfecting a failsafe method, wanting it to be clear that pleasure was his craft and his mouth was the artist. It was enough to make Ikkaku wonder if he just kept this secret cache for when he wanted to seduce a poor sucker. Pun completely intended.

The theatrical yet somehow casual display of suggestive sucking was stopped when the tender held the sucker in his cheek and denounced bluntly, "Oh, you're not."

With gaped eyes, all of Renji's flattered embarrassment turned into a scintilla of disappointment that he was sure he shouldn't feel. "What? Why?" he boomed.

At how easy Renji was to read and how earnest he seemed to be about everything, the bartender found that messing with him was titillating, for the mannerisms of this boy were a perfectly adorable and innocent morsel for such a seasoned carnivore of all hedonic thrills. "Well," he pondered with a smirk, "I try not to generalize, but most gay men are very looks-conscientious, at least with their partners. Don't get me wrong," he rolled his eyes up and down the man's physique slowly, licking his lips like Renji was some kind of saliva-inducing smorgasbord of X-rated ravenousness, making Renji take a sharp quick breath, "You're extremely vibrant. It's just, you have this horrible fashion statement on your head." He reached out and brushed the tepid forehead, noting the tribal tattoo that bedizened Renji's face.

Being extremely sensitive about his tattoos and looks in general, Renji's normal reaction would have been some halfhearted indignant response, however, being touched by such a virile guy caused a frothy heat to erupt, and he merely bit his tongue to stop the forth from coming out in the form of sputters. It wasn't until Ikkaku smirked and said, "Yeah, it's like you have the worst part of the 90's advertised on your dome," that the hypnosis was broken.

"Truly, tribal tattoos are a nationally agreed upon phenomenon of mass delirium. A total fashion faux pas."

Grunting slightly with chagrin, Renji exasperated, "Yeah, well I think mine are awesome and unique, who cares what anyone else feels?" he boasted, defending his tattoos as if they were a representation of who Renji was.

The halcyon man merely chuckled mirthfully before clarifying, "Don't be so defensive. I don't disagree with you; it's a part of your eccentric charm." Leaning dangerously close to the man's personal space that was rarely invaded like this, he explained, "I really like eccentric." At the authentic compliment gift wrapped in such a heady tenner, Renji's inner maladroitness returned with a vengeance as he glared down at his shoes. Though, before he could even seem to remember his own name, the bartender perked up and looked over the sliming sea of dancers with a narrowed brow. After a transitory moment of observation, he rose an eye brow and said, "Welp, Ikkaku, looks like it's your time to shine. Go get em', tiger." He nodded his head towards the DJ booth, causing both men to turn quickly.

Bedecked in an overly fitted chainlink shirt that embraced his body in all the right ways and hung just low enough to show a tantalizing sliver of ivory abdomen, Yumichika sauntered through the crowd with an audacious and vigorous aura. The metallic textile of his shirt was phosphorescent in the flashing lights, making him lambent like a diamond. His toned yet willowy legs were covered in jet black skinny jeans that were brushed by the dark red leather jacket he wore. Chin length raven hair was pulled back in a short braid that hung to the side while lose stands of hair fell across his pierced face, the stark strands highlighting his heavy amethyst eyes. This was a completely different entity than the man Ikkaku encountered in the library. That man was equally as intense but maintained a sobering solitude, as if he was wading in the emotions he felt, letting them crash over him like waves and envelope him, accepting and coming to peace with them. That man was reserved and humbled, but this Yumichika was arrogant and intrepid, moving across the room as if he owned the place, and by the looks of everyone's eyes on him, he did.

Ikkaku was unsure what had caused this extreme transformation. Yumichika was like a vessel sharing two personalities, like a real life werewolf, his wild and animalistic side breaking free at the first sight of nightfall. Perhaps this was truly just another side of him, a facet of his dynamic charm. All Ikkaku knew was he liked it, oh did he like it. The way the man arrogantly netted his brows, flicked his pierced tongue, and gave a saucy smirk that Ikkaku was sure could seduce its way into the heart of god himself.

Renji stayed anchored, but averted his eyes slightly, as if looking at Yumichika was as blinding as looking into the sun. Ikkaku threw his friend an aslant glare and gave an amused huff. "What happened to 'if you want to glare, I'll glare right with you?'"

The barkeep was leaning across the bar on his elbows, now returned from closing out some tabs, with his minty blood-warming breath right by Renji's neck as he spoke. "What's wrong with you? Do you become an incapacitated veggie every time you see someone attractive? Unable to talk or look at the person?"

Renji, still turned towards the club, but with his head slightly turned over his shoulder, scowled. "I'm not attracted to him. I just didn't want to make a stupid face and ruin the whole thing." With more vigor, he corrected, "And I'm fine talking to and looking at people who are attractive, it's just the ones I'm attracted to that give me a hard time."

The reverberation of the man's humming lips could be felt against Renji's cheek as he pondered the thought. In a completely matter of fact tone, he reminded, "But you've been finding yourself tongue-tied around me and you've been avoiding my gaze all night."

Coloring and gaping, Renji boomed, "I don't know what you're talking about!" while wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans.

"Will you both shut the hell up?" Ikkaku groused, watching Yumichika move through the crowd, talking to a few people as he inched closer to the group slowly. Ikkaku was trying to find some courage, find some words, find a fucking prayer, anything to figure out his next move. It was reminiscent of what people felt like at their prom, when they were eyeing their crush shyly from the punch bowl, their sweaty adolescent hands aquiver with the possibility of ruining their only opportunity. Basking in his own romantic ineptness, Ikkaku felt about as brave as a love struck teenager. Bravado had gotten him this far, but only real courage would push him over the proverbial edge.

"He's pretty like a girl," Renji blurted out haphazardly.

"Tch-" Ikkaku scoffed, "He looks nothing like a girl."

"I didn't mean it like that. He's just not sexy in a way a guy would usually be. He's manly, but in a really sultry and soft way, ya' know?" Reni tried to clarify, hearing the high strung tone in his friend's voice as a warning.

"He really is a beautiful thing. A manly jaw mixed with vixenish soft features, not to mention that killer twink bod he's rocking." He gave a manly chuckle, "In the gay world, were both alphas, just on different ends of the spectrum. I'm the more refined yet rugged type." Smirking close enough to the side of Renji's neck that he could feel the curl of his lips, the redhead internally shivered at the feeling. "What's your type, Renji?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Girls!" he boomed nervously, his cheeks were on fire with a mixture of humiliation, irritation, and from finding the bartender too hot for words. In Renji's case, too hot for words was quite literal.

Teasing the man, he quipped, "Oh, we have those types here too. I didn't know you were into drag queens."

Whatever Renji's half-baked response would have been was lost when Ikkaku grunted rather loudly and asked, "What's going on over there?" The bar was located at the back of the establishment, situated a few yards across were a variety of tables and open space for people to socialize outside of the dancing radius. At one of the tables was an extremely intoxicated girl, barely even realizing the invasive yet uninvited paws of a brawny man as she tried to swat him away. Roving right towards the pair was an intense and impassioned Yumichika.

"Shit," Ikkaku muttered, ready to go valiantly superimpose himself in the altercation, only to be pulled back into the bar by the fierce grip of the barkeep.

"Hold up mister knight in shining armor," he urged in a placating tone, "Yumichika doesn't need nor want your bravery. Simmer down."

Sneering at the grip, Ikkaku shook it off, but stayed anchored, protesting, "That guy's twice his size."

Huffing and shaking his head, as if to say you truly know nothing, he asserted, "Just watch."

Meanwhile, back in the thick of the altercation, Yumichika frantically stepped in-between the girl and the man, and loomed over the guy with a seething antipathy in his mauve orbs. "Leave. Now," he demanded, his usually strong yet whimsical voice was constrained and moody.

Undeterred by the seemingly weaker man, the brutish exhibitionist stood up, almost a whole foot taller than the nimble man in front of him. With one swift movement, he wrapped an arm around the younger man and with a slimy smile, he pondered, "Maybe you want me to be showing you a little attention."

Yumichika huffed in realization before smirking slightly, "Well if you want to do this the hard way." Within an instant, Yumichika pulled out some mad mortal combat krav maga type moves, releasing himself from the man's grasp and bringing him into side control. His neck was bound by Yumichika's unyielding grip and his wrist held behind his back, forcing the man to painfully bow down to the DJ. This pain was only intensified when the DJ kneed the man in the face twice before releasing him, letting his brawny bloody body fall to the ground in agony. Renji half expected for a deep ubiquitous voice to sound from the sky, exclaiming 'K.O'

He stood shaking his head in disappointment before rolling his eyes at the bloody mess of a creep. Cupping hands around his mouth like they were a bullhorn, he puffed out his chest and bellowed loudly towards the entrance of the club, "BRIAN!" When this Brian character didn't come immediately, Yumichika repeated the gesture, only to call out, "YOU INCOMPETENT SWINE!" This seemed to get the attention of the man, as an oaf that looked like he had more muscles than brains slugged out, stuffed inside a highlighter orange shirt that read: BOUNCER. It was unclear if this man just liked the 'I'm about to rip this shirt with my hulk strength' look or if his shirt shrunk in the wash. Either way, he looked ridiculous.

"What!" the torpid man bellowed back, only to say "Shit" as he walked up and saw the profusely bleeding man on the floor. Yumichika was giving the man a knowing glare with a hand on his hip, obviously readying himself for a diatribe.

"Where have you been, you pestilent pig?" Yumichika insulted, his tongue sharpened and ready. "While you were off chasing around little gay boys or whatever it is you do while you're not working, one of our costumers was almost molested," gracefully fanning his hand out like he was molding a new car, "Right out in the open. You know you're supposed to be stationed in the main club room tonight. "

Doing a once over with a slightly miffed face, he said, "I can see that. I'm here now, 'Chika. Chill the fuck out." He bent down to hoist up the guy up by the armpit, who looked like he had more blood on his shirt than in his body.

Yumichika's eye twitched slightly as his head looked about ready to explode. "Ah, but that's the crucial flaw that you're not getting. You're here _now_ when you should have been out here all along. Why can't you do your job, Brian?" he asked rhetorically, "I can do yours _and_ mine, and I'm HIGH!" he belittled smugly, obviously finding joy in putting this man in his place.

As if nothing Yumichika said had penetrated that muscle centric skull, he asserted. "Oh 'Chika, you know I love that saucy mouth of yours."

The beauty's face contorted with disgust at the slimy man. He couldn't fathom that such a large head had such an insignificant brain. "You disgust me, you sea urchin," he stated bluntly, clenching his teeth. "Now, you're going to bring this man to the front and find a patrolling officer, and then you're going to make sure they drive this young lady home." Holding up two fingers like he was giving a peace sign, he patronized, "Two things, do you think you can manage that?"

The brute just grunted, "That fucking mouth is going to come back and bite ya' one day." all while Yumichika helped the girl up and told her that she'd be taken home safely.

As he walked away, Yumichika could hear him laugh at the guy and say, "Damn, he really got you good." The DJ took a moment, rolled his eyes, closed them tight, and sighed a loaded sigh, as if his brain was computing an error sign, unable to load in the presence of such astounding philistinism.

As he watched the impressive display of bad-ass-dom, Ikkaku's heart started to palpitate. It was as if his drums were stored within the vascular organ and pounding away at the sight of such a dynamic beauty. At the blood pumping through his veins at twice the normal rate, Ikkaku was overwhelmed and conflicted by these new emotions. Yumichika was a leather clad serpent, his hypnotic oculus drawing everyone into his viperous squeeze, letting the euphoric poison course through their blood stream, suspended between life and necrosis. He was an archangel with clipped wings, the morning star himself veiling his horns, but it was said even Lucifer himself had been God's favorite, and for good reason. Never had Ikkaku seen such a mélange of virtue and viciousness, fierceness and fortitude. Even if it meant sure death, how could he not let Yumichika sink in his fangs?

Smacking his gums irately, Ikkaku said, "You said he was bad, but I didn't see anything bad about that."

Letting out a breathy groan and rolling his eyes, the barkeep, who was still leaning his muscular arms on the bar and his face now situated in the opening between the two men, griped, "Ikkaku, there are only three things I truly can't stand in this world: cheap liquor, pastels, and people who hear only what they want to hear." He gave a theatrical sigh, as if to say 'I'm surrounded by idiots,' and continued, "I said Yumichika wasn't a bad person and I said I like him also, but I also like poppers; that doesn't make them good for me."

Being an alien invader in the planet of gay, Ikkaku thought about what poppers could be and concluded it must have been some sex thing. He wasn't completely wrong. As the barkeeper's eyes trailed Yumichika's movements, he started counting down like a rocket launcher. "Five… four… three… two… aaand…" The counting ceased as Yumichika sauntered over to a crooked looking fellow, his unkempt beard and dubious aura making him look like the type of guy who ran a drug cartel from his shag carpet lined van in-between shifts at the movie theater, his buttery digits jaundicing his product. He looked like the type of guy that thought the word 'Demiurgic **'** was the newest street drug. Yumichika kept his distance while still maintaining flirtatious body language, letting his shoulders cave forward slightly as he glossed his full lips with a flick of the tongue and batted his esoteric orbs. The man pulled a out a bag of white nose candy and dangled it in front of the lithesome beauty. Looking at the party in a bag, the DJs eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning who'd gotten the bike they'd always wanted. Yes, and what a white Christmas it was.

Yumichika cocked an eyebrow at the man and walked his nimble drug yearning fingers up the man's arm playfully, just a scintilla of skin on skin collision, so provocative while still being so inaccessible. The two parried for a moment before Yumichika used his unoccupied hand to nab the still dangling blow while whispering something in the man's ear. Without exchanging nothing more than a fleeting flirtation, Yumichika walked away with a pocket full of stardust. Now _that_ was demiurgic, extorting others' carnal desires was his craft. It was sexual blandishment to the highest degree.

He swaggered over to the bar, and without so much as noting their existence, Yumichika snootily superimposed himself in the gap between Renji and Ikkaku, brushing them off to stand in front of the barkeep, like he was so above them, like they were merely ants under his faux leather boots. Renji looked extremely indignant, but neither man said anything. This had been Ikkaku's goal after all, to spend time with Yumichika. Well, here he was, all of two feet away from him, as if the world was trying to call his bluff.

Scoffing at the brazenness, the barkeep straightened up and settled his hands against the granite bar. With a perked eyebrow, he asked, "So, how much did you pay for your coke this time?"

Yumichika dipped the pad of his pinky in the bag of tricks, holding it out like some fancy noblewoman drinking her tea. It was only fitting, seeing as he was the self-proclaimed queen of the club. After rubbing the powder-varnished finger on his gum and sucking his pinky with a look of fulfilled voracity, his eyes fluttered in delight. Smacking his lips and putting a sardonic face of bewilderment, Yumichika asked, "You have to pay for this stuff?"

The bartender poised with a smirk, "Oh, you always pay, somehow. Just wait until debt-collectors start knocking on your door."

Ignoring the well-intended criticism with a roll of the eyes, Yumichika asked offhandedly, "I thought Shawn was working tonight. Where is he?"

With a flippant throw of the hand, he speculated, "Called out. Knowing him, he's probably off trying to get his cock sucked."

"That boy, always cruising like a ship." Yumichika let out a haughty giggly.

"And sinking like one too," the man quipped with a wink of the eye. Like some puerile, secret best friend hand shake, both men drew invisible guns to their mouths and blew out the nonexistent gun smoke, all Charlie's Angle style. "Shots fired," replied Yumichika.

' _What the hell was that, these guys are friends? They're just talking shit like I would with the guys… well,"_ thinking about the illicit drugs in Yumichika's grasp, Ikkaku reasoned, _"not exactly how I would with the guys.'_

The bartender reached into a veiled mini fridge underneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of water. Placing it in font of Yumichika, he offered, "Here, you'll need this for your," he gaped his eyes slightly, "activities. Plus, it'll come in handy when the drip gets bad."

'' _Drip?' I don't understand half of these fucking words_ ,' Ikkaku exaggerated.

Though these moments seemed reminiscent of friendship, with a flash, the mood became spicier. "I like the drip, it's like getting seconds," he declared smugly with a sexily playfully smirk while hosting himself over the counter slightly to nab a straw before he poured out some blow on the bar.

Netting his eyebrows in annoyance, his voice deepened as he said, "Damn it, 'Chika, don't do that here. There are perfectly good bathroom stalls for that sort of thing."

Using his credit card to make a razor straight snortable line of alkaline, he bit his lip and gave the barkeep a sultry gaze. "Oh, come on, _Melrose_ , you know I'd never be caught dead snorting in a bathroom, how bleak." Smiling, he said, "You're no fun."

' _That's his name, Melrose,'_ Renji thought, thankful he wouldn't have to awkwardly ask for it himself. _'It's different… I like that name, it fits him.'_

With his arms across his chest, Melrose gave a theatrically fraudulent laugh, throwing his head back for good measure. "I don't play your games and I know all your tricks, but it's funny that you thought that cute parlor trick you call flirting would work on someone like me." With a sigh, he added, "And don't say my name like that. Your name sounds like some sweet snack they give children in Japan."

Renji couldn't help but to smirk.

Huffing in amusement, Yumichika just did what he wanted, snorting up the drugs before he countered, "I'm a sugary snack alright, but not for kids." Pressing his thumbs under his eye lids and deep into his sinus cavity, he inhaled sharply to make sure he was getting every last crumb of the stimulant. He had to get his flirting's worth. Perching his pointed chin on his intertwined hands, he cooed in a breathy tenor, "You don't play because you're scared you'll lose."

Renji only found himself flustered around people he found attractive, otherwise he had no problem in telling a person about themselves. He certainly didn't find Yumichika appealing in the slightest and was at a loss for how Ikkaku could be so attracted to such a brash narcissist. Yeah, the guy was good looking, but that only goes so far. That and some unexplainable urge to stand up for Melrose was what caused him to speak so candidly. "Maybe he just doesn't like you," he said flatly.

Though he found Renji's gallant attempt to stand up for him dash and endearing, Melrose had a feeling Renji didn't have a good enough arsenal to deal with the likes of Yumichika, Yumichika, a man who could leave you speechless and questioning your self-worth with a mere sentence. It was like throwing a cherry bomb at a nuclear bomb.

Yumichika looked at Renji as if this was the first time he had register him on his radar, as if Renji was just a blimp in his overwhelming scope. For a brief moment, he looked as if he couldn't even believe the nerve of this guy, like he hadn't gotten the memo of who exactly who Yumichika was. The look quickly melted into a sly smirk, giving the man a judgmental one over with his piercing glare. Renji didn't falter, keeping an austere glare that signified he wouldn't be intimidated. Some good that bravado would do him, for it was a _cute_ attemptat most in the presence of a master of such derisive and cheeky rancor.

With a fraudulent and mocking chuckle, Yumichika mocked, "Well not everyone can have good taste." Cocking an eye brow at the man, he insulted, "Just look at you, that's a testament to his fetid tendencies."

"Yumichika," Melrose said with an edge of warning to his voice.

The DJ could care less, he continued on his tirade. "These new gays coming out the wood works these day, they're dumber and dumber," shaking his head in mocking fright, "It's quite sad actually, he probably even thinks you'd call him tomorrow, Melrose." Now mimicking a baby voice, "How precious."

"We get it, 'Chika. Leave him out of it." Crossing his arms to signify he wasn't messing around, he added, "Make fun of someone your own size." Obviously he wasn't referencing Yumichika's physical attributes, but more so, the size and agility of his mouth. Though Renji wasn't dumb, he wasn't made for this type of catty banter, and this was just one ballad of the DJ's sassy repertoire.

Here Yumichika was, impudent and cheeky, sucking up dust like a vacuum cleaner, and Ikkaku didn't care. This s _hould_ have deterred him, he _should_ have known better. Despite his naïveté when it came to matters of the heart, he knew enough to know that it wasn't healthy to be so abjectly attracted to such a piece of work, an insensitive, neurotic scene queen-junkie such as Yumichika, because he was truly more like a year-long project. He knew that if he had even a shred of self-respect or brains, he'd walk away from the fire-eater before he could become another one of his victims, but he just didn't care. Yumichika's mouth was apitoxin and adrenaline, stinging with every anaphylactic shock causing syllable while simultaneously injecting him with epinephrine. He was constant waves of bittersweet pain and Ikkaku was hooked. Yes, If Yumichika was spitting brimstone, Ikkaku wanted to be in hell.

It wasn't as if he was some pain seeking masochist who got off on Genghis Khan style demoralization. He veritably believed that the real Yumichika lay somewhere between the blurred lines and the lines of coke, between the sober dissipation and the hardly sober, between pernicious intentions of his words and the veiled truths of his music. After looking hard enough, he'd seen a scintilla of that man within the muddied facades.

Truthfully, he and the band had always been drinkers not druggies. Though the others would occasional share a joint with their stoner ska-playing neighbors down at the studio, it was never his thing. He didn't know much about drugs, other than what state-funded middle school classes would shove down his throat in the form of silly mascots who sang the same fear-mongering mantras year after year. Like most kids, he been exposed to the mugshots of busted-up strung-out junkies and told the stories of how they'd sold their grandma's house just to lick the inside of empty cellophane that had once housed dope, all in hopes of getting the remnants of a fix. These atrophic, toothless, sea urchins to society were the face of drug use, but Yumichika didn't look like any of those conceptions. He was virile and healthy, he seemed perfectly sane and bright eyed, and he certainly had all of his teeth. For all he knew, Yumichika snorted coke like Ikkaku smoked cigarettes, garnished his morning coffee with it, but for some reason, he doubted it. That somber intimate intensity he held when working didn't look as if it could be muddied by anything, the company of others or drugs. All he knew was, since he'd never truly spent time with someone who indulged in such illicit acts, he'd have to drop any conceptions he had or risk making hasty assumptions, because when it came to Yumichika, it could be easy to misconceive him when all he wanted was to get to know him.

"Oh my," Yumichika exasperated theatrically, "You're sticking up for him? I must be right, he is one of your toys." Nudging Renji slightly, he gave a fraudulent warning, "Watch out for him, he loves to criticize me, but how does the saying go? When you point a finger at someone," he stuck his finger out in a taunting fashion and poked Melrose's chest playful, "you have three pointing back at yourself."

Melrose was much more of Yumichika's size when it came to a battle of witty quips and underhanded insults. Working as a bartender at a gay waterhole, taking shit and dishing it right back out with a size of sass was like an Olympic event, right next to cruising and color coordinating. Still, for a seasoned veteran such as himself, he always took home the gold. Though, his colorful past aside, he had genuinely enjoyed the charismatic, kindhearted, and gawky vibes that exuded from the quote on quote "straight man," and since he was sure Yumichika had just ruined any chance he had, he let his annoyance take over.

In an obviously irate tone, Melrose spat, "God 'Chika, you out-bitch yourself when you're geeking. I didn't think it was possible." Yumichika was like a child in that way. Knowing he got under your skin was only oxygen to his flame. Knowing this, Melrose placated himself, and in his usual manly yet smug tone, he corrected, "And I'll have you know, anything I do with my partners is always honest and straightforward, no matter if it's a quick fuck or a long-term relationship. Whatever it is you do with your victims is not comparable."

Yumichika did something oddly out of character, at least for Melrose to encounter: he backed down. As if Melrose had said the magic work or some sorcery was controlling his actions, he was pacified, still with a snarky tone, "Relax, dear. Melrose and I do not like each other in that way, I'm just teasing him."

' _Wait, was that him_ … _being nice?'_ Ikkaku wondered internally.

"I don't care who he likes," Renji muttered halfheartedly, but Yumichika had already returned to his disinterested self. It had been such a brief moment of human concern that it was almost like it hadn't happened. It was such a quick change that it was as if Yumichika was wordlessly saying 'even if you told people, they'd never believe you.'

"You're so touchy tonight, Melrose. Would you like a pick me up?" he waved the bag of blow in front of him as if he was waving a white flag of surrender, a drug-covered olive branch.

Smirking and shaking his head back and forth, he said, "I can't sleep on that stuff."

"That's the point," Yumi reasoned with a smile. In his sultry and suggestive tone, he said, "You know what they say, bed at twelve, home by three."

Chortling while cleaning up and organizing the bar area, he reprimanded, "Don't use that tried and true on me. The men you frequent are never so lucky to get you under the sheets," pausing, he teased, "or anywhere else, for that matter." Though he was preoccupied with other things, he threw Ikkaku a knowing look, as if he was telepathically letting him know that this was the most important part. "So who's the poor bastard going to be tonight? There's always something. Hitchhiking on the beach with a bunch of druggy hippies, going on some guys suave boat, night surfing, illegal basement raves, you always have _some_ thrill up your sleeve."

Pressing his hands flat together, it looked as if he was about to pray, but let's face it, Yumichika didn't pray. As if he was contemplating some diabolical plan, he tapped his fingers together repeatedly. "I haven't had any good offers tonight. That guy from last week wanted us to go sneaking into the swanky hotels to use their hot tubs." Raising his eye brows with a ting of excitement, he poised, "Sounds risky, I like risky."

Ikkaku knew this was his chance, probably his best one. He'd always been filled with valor, never backing down from a dare or a challenge. Whether it was downing a whole bottle of Jack Daniels, playing Bleed by Meshuggah - an extremely hardcore song to perfect on percussions - until his fingers bled, or completing his trig homework before his eight am class while utterly sloshed at six am, daddy didn't raise no quitter.

Something about that cheeky little spitfire arose Ikkaku's love for a challenge, something about his unforgiving tone and arrogant air made Ikkaku want to put Yumichika in his place, but in all the best ways. He knew a man like Yumichika only responded to confidence and smugness, two attributes that described Ikkaku. If he wanted a thrill, Ikkaku would give it to him. Who was he? Getting all flustered by this guy like he was Renji? No, Ikkaku wasn't going to be suffocated by Yumichika's flames, he was going to thrive in them.

When Ikkaku spoke up for the first time, his voice was cock-sure. His energy was manly yet flirtatious; it was as if he did this all the time. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was some boy-killing carnivore who preyed on innocent naive little gay men and Yumichika was just an appetizer to his sexual edacity. It had taken about a week, but when he was finally ready to step up to Yumichika's challenging aura, he was on his A-game. "How about riding on a motorcycle with a complete stranger?" He cocked an eyebrow at the man before invading his bubble slightly, barely grazing his finger down Yumichika's leather-clad arm for an impressive display of detached yet sensual flirtation.

Whether Ikkaku had been mimicking Yumichika, just putting a more manly spin on it, or he had picked this up from a movie, it wasn't clear, because Ikkaku flirted about as much as a nun. "Unless you think you'd have more fun breaking into hotels like some bratty teenager." Even when he was insulting the man, there was something in his voice that was pure sex while his breezy demeanor gave the impression that he could take it or leave it.

Both Melrose and Renji share a look of utter bewilderment. Who was this man and what had he done with their lovable semi-stalkerish brute? Yumichika looked equally as addled. Most men were falling all over him, begging him for a chance to be used by him or to take him out, idolizing him. None would risk their chance by being so forthright and intrepid with him. This was something completely new, and Yumichika loved new.

The thing was, Ikkaku didn't want Yumichika's body… Well it wasn't the cynosure of his attention, but if he had to look at Yumichika like he was a piece of meat while treating him like the holy terror he was being just to get a foot in the door, he'd do it.

After letting his eyes vacillate between Ikkaku's cock-sure gaze and the helmet situated on the bar chair beside him, Yumichika gave a flippant chuckle and a blasé glare, seemingly unimpressed by this primordial display of testosterone-fueled cruising. "It depends," an impish grin rouged his serpentine face, "Do I get to drive?"

Sure… this coked-out stranger could drive his most prized possession, second to his drums, right after Ikkaku and Renji eloped and moved to Argentina to open up a fruit stand. Ikkaku wasn't risking his life or worse, the life of his precious baby, for ass, even if it was really cute Yumichika-ass. He had drove and planned on taking a taxi home, but seeing as he was sober, there was no need.

Going with the theme of this evening, and since it was what he was best at, he continued with his brutal honesty. He pursed his lips and gave a breathy chuckle, almost mockingly so, "I have a policy about letting drugged-out twinks drive my bike."

Melrose had to stifle a boisterous laugh with his hand because he was pretty sure, by the look on Renji's face, that today was the first time Ikkaku had even heard that word, and he would be right. He had heard Melrose say it, and figured why not? He had to make this believable after all; he had to be meet Yumichika where he was at, and that was high up on a throne of his own arrogance. Still, the way it so casually rolled off his tongue, as if it was a part of his every day vernacular, was impressive and shocking.

There was a curious look on Yumichika's face. He was all too intrigued by this abrasive man with tattooed eyes and a dauntless aura. What an aberration he was and what an anomaly of feelings he caused the saucy DJ. After he stood wordless for a moment, Ikkaku decided to play a gamble; he had always been quite the lucky man.

Invading that space once more, moving in slightly closer this time, he let his haughty tepid breath float above Yumichika's ear as he proposed, "I'll tell you what, we can go _really_ fast, and maybe even on the bike too."

At his normally romantically inept friend sounding like some master seducer casanova type, like he was a regular Ron Burgundy, even down to the degrading pick up line, Renji choked up on nothing and started heaving. This was some golden globe winning shit because just yesterday, this Don Juan was having a belching contest with him and Kurosaki, and he'd won. Luckily, Renji was saved from dying of shock by Melrose begrudgingly slapping him on the back, muttering, "Jesus Christ."

Consumed by curiosity and enticing heat, Yumichika took the bait. With an amused huff, he said, "I'll go get my stuff."

Feeling a mixture of victorious and overwhelmed, Ikkaku counter with a smirk, "My name's Ik-" to find himself interrupted by the pads of Yumichika's cocaine-jaundiced fingertips pressed onto his lips. They tasted like cleaning solutions and lilacs.

With the same hypnotic vanity, Yumichika took control of the situation once more, taking the lead in this flirtatious tango. "Shh," he interrupted, "no names, we're strangers," he winked, "right?" before he turned on his heels and departed towards the DJ booth.

As soon as Yumichika was out of ear shot, Melrose spun around and squealed slightly, like he was some gushing school girl. Renji thought he had never seen someone who could be such a peculiar tonic of flamboyant and manly at the same time, but he found it oddly endearing. After cooing for moment, Melrose gave Ikkaku a hard jostle in the shoulder and exclaimed, "That was bitchin'!" And yes, Melrose used words like bitchin', because in his world, this was still the 90's and his phraseology mimicked the dialogue of the Clueless movies. "I've never heard anyone but me talk to Yumichika so bluntly like that, without the flirting, of course." With a calmer disposition, he said, "Maybe you didn't need my advice after all. I've misread you, Ikkaku, perhaps you'll be the first ever man to say he's been out with 'Chika twice." He wiggled his eyebrows and complimented him as if this was up to par with being the first man to venture onto the moon.

With a half grunt and half smirk, Ikkaku countered, "Let me get through the first one before you start jinxing me." Pulling out his wallet, he continued, "I misread you too, I wouldn't have gotten that far without your advice… How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, it's on the house tonight, but don't expect that all the time," he reminded with a smile. "This was great entertainment and I can now say I've seen 'Chika rendered speechless. You've earned your drinks."

Looking through his wallet, Ikkaku offered, "I know bartenders live off of tips, here." He handed the man a twenty. "Your advice really helped me out. I wouldn't have even known how to be that way towards the guy if it wasn't for your tip." Ikkaku was the only one of his friends who had an adult enough job where he didn't have to scrape up change for a six pack or rely on dollar taco night just as a means of survival, so such gestures were rather trivial to him.

Ogling the money with a pleased look as he put it in with the scanty amount of tips he'd made for the night, Melrose teased, "Tip for tip then. If you're a big baller like this, you're welcomed at my bar anytime." Turning a more flirtatious eye towards Renji, he said with a wink, "and that goes for you too, cherry bomb."

Finding it hard to make direct eye contact with the frisky bartender, and with his face somewhere between a smirk and a blush, Renji pondered, "Cherry bomb?"

Cocking his eyebrow in slight surprise, he explained, "You know, The Runaways… Joan Jett…She only introduced women into the world of electric rock. That was their number one hit." He proceeded to mimic the 'cha-cha-cha-cherry bomb' part with a whimsical tone before adding, "Huh? Surprising, you struck me as the type who knew their rock music." Leaning in closer, he offered honestly, "If you'd ever like to learn more, you know where to find me. I'd love to talk to you some more."

' _Ah, wait, but I do know plenty about rock music… You just came out of left field with that_ … _You surprised me_ … _more than once actually,'_ was what he wanted to say, but before his brain could tell his mouth it was time to man up, Melrose had turned on his heels to close out the last of his tabs for the evening.

As Melrose closed up some tabs, Renji watched wistfully as some blitzed club goers shamelessly hit on him, and of course, since he was a bartender, that flirting was returned in minutia, if only in the hope of scoring some last minute tips. Ikkaku watched as Renji watched, smirking at his dense friend. "Uh… So Renji, whatcha' think of our new base player? You were really into her…right..?" he teased, obviously giving his friend shit about his newly acquired crush, a crush that he wouldn't admit to verbally.

Renji, who was only half paying attention, let his eyes waffle between Ikkaku and his newly discovered eye candy. "Ermm," he hummed out absent mindededly before he locked his gaze to Ikkaku's, "Who are you talking about?" he asked candidly, letting his face sit still in contemplation until the light bulb went off. Completely scatterbrained and indifferent towards the subject, he turned his eyes back towards the vultures circling Melrose before saying indifferently, "Oh, Rukia? Yeah, yeah, total babe."

This only elicited a breathy chuckle from Ikkaku, who thought, _'I'm pretty sure Renji's more bi-curious than he's letting on_ … _Ah, let the poor bastard figure it out for himself. It'll be fun to watch it torture him_ … _Still, doesn't mean I can't give him shit for it'._

"You know, instead of staring him down like that, you could just ask him out," Ikkaku reasoned; the hypocrisy of his statement was not lost on him.

Looking as if Ikkaku had just suggested he streak through the entirety of their campus, he sputtered, "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I-I-I'm not interested. I don't go that way." 

"Suuure," Yumichika's sardonic voice spoke up, spooking the two with his furtive entrance. The DJ smiled slyly at the man before saying the most genuine thing he had said all evening, "I know that look. You so obviously have an attraction to Melrose. Don't delude yourself. It's just tragic to watch." Slightly less playful, he added, "Melrose is one of the good guys, and as ridiculously good looking as he is, for him to be interested in anyone is a rarity. I'd take him up on his offer before you miss your chance."

Before Renji could respond one way or the other, Yumichika turned his impish gaze onto Ikkaku, who said, "You ready, _stranger?_ "

Lifting Ikkaku's arm and slinging it around his shoulder, he countered, "I think the real question is, are you?"

 **xXx**

 **Tee: I'm glad you're enjoying it! I hope you continue to keep reading.**

 **Jazzybella: Hey darling! Thank's for your continued support. I glade you liked the Gender roll thing. It just seemed like such a Rukia thing to say. lol Hopefully you continue to enjoy the humor of this story! I try really hard to make it funny for you guys.**

 **Sachiko Heiwajima: I'm glad it's piqued your interest. I hope you keep reading and hopefully I can keep it pretty interesting. I try to keep things pretty dramatic and fresh.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey readers! There's not much to say about this chapter except that It ended up be way longer than I thought so I wasn't able to add any more to the ByaIchi part of this story. Never fear, next chapter these twos stories will start going about the same pace and you'll get a lot more ByaIchi related stuff.**

 **I've gotten a lot of new followers, so thank you! Please review, it makes a cheesy pop song play in my heart every time you do.**

 **POV: Omniscient narrator**

 **Disclaimer: As always, mature readers only. There will be heavy subjects throughout this story.**

 **xXx**

" _I've never felt alone 'till I met you._

 _I'm all right on my own, and then I met you._

 _And I'd know what to do if I just knew what's coming." - Third Eye Blind "Deep Inside of You."_

 **xXx**

 **Where The Light Get's In**

 **xXx**

Ikkaku liked long winding roads, roads that were relentless and uninterrupted by the convulsions of everyday complexities, roads that seemed to only exist for the sole purpose of getting lost as they stretched out into an amaranthine landscape. Those were the roads of his old town, the roads he traversed frequently. He enjoyed their uncomplicated nature. However, since he had moved to this cesspool of STDs and entitled upper-middle class millennials, those simplicities had been lost to him. The roads here were intricate interweaving portals of extra-dimensional transportation. You'd get on one road only to be lead fifteen minutes across town. It was like going through your ass to _accidentally_ end up at your elbow.

It was only made worse by the fact that this was a college and beach town. The town was constantly besieged with lost tourists creeping along and holding up traffic, an innumerable amount of douchey sunbathing college kids rocking their sun-damaged epidermises like they hoped to get skin cancer, and a jillions of the elderly all congregating by the coast like it was heaven's waiting room, living the easy life before they took their final sabbatical. The complexities were a headache.

To be honest, despite how it may appear, Ikkaku didn't like complicated- not as a rule, but as a tendency. For the most part, his morals were anchored, hard-line, and one-sided even. Most things could be tightly squeezed into black and white boxes. He didn't get caught up in the intricacy of grey matter when it came to dogmas. In ways, it was a great virtue to have. Having such an incorruptible sense of right and wrong, a moral compass as straight forward as the roads he found himself keen of, he often could see things without muddied down half-baked excuses hindering him. On the other hand, this could often lead to him under-complicating things that deserved much more reflection. Despite if it was a virtue or a glitch, whether it was his aesthetics, alcohol, or arithmetic, he kept most things in life simple.

So being interested in this Rubik's cube of a man seemed to contradict his constitution. Ikkaku could probably grasp the intricacies of quantum physics, the origins of life, or even more mystifying: why anyone would ever listen to pop music - before he could even put a dent in the vast and dynamic personality of Yumichika Ayasegawa.

Ikkaku was not okay with drugs; no amount of concessions could waver that opinion. He didn't agree with it and never would, and he certainly would rather Yumichika wasn't a user – but that wasn't to say that he judged him for it. The man wasn't some leech on society or some strung-out junkie zombie who spent his time in abandoned houses looking for a fix. His life wasn't the movie 'Trainspotting' personified. He worked, he went to school, and he made beautiful music; by all appearance, he was rather driven. By what, Ikkaku wasn't sure. No, his antipathy towards drugs was due to the long term effects it could have on the users.

That was the thing about heavy drug use: from the outside looking in, the person seemed fine, and for a long time, they were. For a long time, they stay young and vital, seemingly of right mind, but it was all an illusion, a show that could make the ending to Hamlet seem like a slap on the wrist. Eventually the drugs would get harder, the "friends" would become sketchier, and the debt would become unsurmountable. It wasn't until you were in some rundown Roach Motel, stealing drugs off your now overdosed friend's corpse, not even waiting for the rigor mortis to set in or for the enzymes to start to digest cell membranes- it wasn't until _then_ that it became impossible to deny that you were in the direst bleakest situation you'd even been in. That is, if you were still enough in your right mind to even grasp the depths of your own depravity. That was the thing that caught so many people. Drugs weren't meant to kill you - not right away, at least. They were similar to a moth getting closer and closer to a light, incredibly attracted by its beauty and the feeling and the warmth, but once they're hooked, they can't look away and eventually are burned and killed. Addiction was a malignant cyst that killed you slowly, taking away every last iota of virtue or uniqueness so furtively that by time someone noticed, you were already too far gone. The idea of Yumichika being eaten alive from the inside like that really spooked Ikkaku.

He didn't even know if Yumichika was an addict. Surely there were people who did drugs sparingly, as means of recreational use, like how most of the guys in the band drank but had no physical or mental dependency. Still, how easy would it be for Yumichika to get pulled deeper and deeper into this whirlpool of drug use, especially if he was using as means of coping.

But who was he to Yumichika? Absolutely nobody, a stranger, another thrill gift-wrapped in leather and fast-and-the-furious-style motorbiking. He had no right to tell him what to do. More so, if he tried to impose his opinions on him, there wasn't a shadow of a doubt that Yumi would show him just where the door was and probably insult him for not finding the way out himself. He wasn't sure he wouldn't do that after tonight anyway. Ikkaku knew his tactics couldn't be so overt, because in the end, Yumichika would have to want to change. There was nothing he could do or say to change someone who didn't even realize or _care_ that they had a problem. Instead, Ikkaku would focus on spending time getting to know the real Yumichika. He'd spend time getting to know the lonely yet arrogant beauty, and hopefully, by understanding why he does what he does, when the day came that he wanted help, he'd trust Ikkaku to provide it. Even if it was just a friendship, Ikkaku was so eager to be around him, to know him, to taste his mind, to be the companion Yumi didn't even know he wanted.

There was one place in town where you could go to escape the clamor of weekend warriors romping through the city. At the furthest point in the town was an annexed island filled with equally as bustling nightlife, the boardwalk alive with the incandescent lights of arcade games and carnival rides. The singular curvaceous road stretched past the hubbub and wound into the shadows of the coast line. For miles, the only sound was of chaotic waves building and breaking over each other. The only sight were lopsided and jagged trees, the aberrancy of the topiary caused by savage winds that stunted and altered their growth. The mutant trees looked like the menacing type that always came to life in animated movies, but offered a unique captivation to the starlit asphalt artery.

At the end of this delphic path was an inlet, a rock edifice separating the port and the Atlantic, a fossil left over from the days of the Civil War, an old fort that was now utilized as nothing more than a serene and desolate landscape. The fact that the inlet lay at the furthest end of the coast and took a whole forty minutes to drive to from the middle of town was the reason for its meager usage. The waterway-enclosed cove was perfectly solitary most of the time, a paradisiacal escape for a man like Ikkaku.

Seemingly lost in his new bad boy role - mainly because that was just not Ikkaku - he tried to figure out the perfect place to take the DJ. He was like the Goldilocks of thrill-seeking, wanting nothing too life threatening or illegal, but nothing too transparently home-free at the same time.

For a moment, Ikkaku stupidly thought of being really cliché and sneaking them into the closed-for-the-season carnival like they do in the movies, but in the real world, cops exist, and the beach was crawling with them, all of them bored from patrolling in uneventful well-to-do neighborhood, just waiting for the tiniest hint of criminal activity. Trying to ride a ride would be like a vociferous and beaming cop-signal flashing in the sky, a one way ticket to a jail cell… again, and he'd deserve it. He was trying to leave an impression on this guy, but not that kind. Nothing said boyfriend material like spending the night in some sordid cage, sandwiched between a detoxing junkie and the guy who'd gotten caught stealing King Cobra's out of a 7-11.

It was anybody's guess with this guy though. This wasn't his first ride; he was constantly playing Russian Roulette with his own livelihood. Maybe they knew him by name there, reserved him a spot next to the bars and everything. Yumichika liked to gamble, but as they say, 'you pay your money, you take your chances,' and his life was like a constant game of blackjack where he was trying to get twenty-one but kept hitting on sixteen. Risk was not an abstract concept to this man.

For a while, Ikkaku thought, 'why should he care?' He'll take Yumichika wherever, and his bratty ass could build a bridge and get the fuck over it. Each time that crossed his mind, though, he shot it down when he remembered that Yumichika's opinion of him mattered, that he actually cared if he liked him, something that hadn't happened since he'd been shipped off to live with his brute of an uncle who'd taught him how to drink like a man and fight like one too. Real men were unapologetically themselves, but what if this was himself too, and the thrill-seeking DJ was just drawing out a more tamed and pacific facet, one he'd never known he'd had?

Overall, the idea made Ikkaku want to hurl. It gave him a queasy feeling that was reminiscent of the time he'd lost a bet and had smoked a whole pack of three dollar Santa-Fe cigarettes - he'd thrown up at around number ten. Still, he went with it. Digging through Yumichika's complexities was already as confusing as circumnavigating the Bermuda Triangle without dumping self-doubt on top of the heap. This necromancer of a man had done the impossible, making curiosity exist where it once hadn't, and Ikkaku was restless to be educated. Besides, as his uncle had taught him, real men go after what they want and steamroll the naysayers.

The rock divider led out to an island with an abandoned lighthouse. It wasn't all too uncommon for couples seeking privacy or drunk teenagers to walk over the once crumbling inlet and to the lighthouse. However, Ikkaku had no intentions to walk. He knew for a fact that the inlet had been restored last semester, for it was his employers that had been contracted for the job. So, to him, the once crumbling foundation was now just a bumpy road, a bumpy road that was surrounded by jagged rock, uproarious waves, and certain death for his bike if he screwed up. Not to mention the possibility of passing by coast guard members, though not high, existed, and this wasn't his measly run-of-the-mill public intoxication misdemeanor he was habituated to - this was federal time. Still, it wasn't in Ikkaku's nature to doubt his plans. It was more of his forte to get out of sticky situations, not avoid them. Once he had an idea, he ran rampant with it, and if something went wrong, well, he'd deal with that when - not if - it happened. Although, it was the most inscrutable sensation, despite the fact that Yumichika was like a walking cop-magnet, being around him felt like holding aces, as if the beauty was some kind of good luck talisman. That had to mean something, right?

Upon entering the estuary of the inlet, there was a raw chaotic energy caused by the howling winds bustling at rampant velocities, only enhanced by the sheer fury of turbulent waves eroding the rocks and filling the stygian tempest with the scent of saline. Before the impetuous Ikkaku had time to realize this was probably a bad decision, he was off. Fuck it all. Fuck the weather, fuck the coast guard, fuck Poseidon, and fuck the risky chances. As he rode, any fear evaporated. He felt like a regular Ghost Rider - the cool comic book version, not the ridiculous Nicholas Cage version - as he realized he had this. Sure, the winds were making it hard for him to keep balance, but this wasn't the first time he'd rode in shit weather.

More so, he forced Yumichika into wearing his helmet, ignoring his pleads that it would ruin his hair, and felt pretty confident in the man's safety. Because of the shallow waters and the short fall, even if they were to slip, Yumichika's leather and helmet would protect him, leaving Ikkaku and his stallion to take the brunt of the crash. Not that Yumi seemed all too concerned with his safety, as he was arching his neck backwards and swaying his head in the wind, wearing the most amused and euphoric expression. His arms held onto Ikkaku's core tightly as he fed off the energy, laughing at the pure exhilaration of it all. It was enough to make Ikkaku wonder if Yumichika cared about his own wellbeing at all. Letting some rando take him into a secluded lighthouse that would practically be impossible to escape from - it was like he was trying to end up locked away in some sicko's basement. Seriously, it was more a question of how Yumichika had not ended up waking up in a room plastered with plastic, or as a lock of hair tucked away as some maniacs trophy, or even as some ghoulish skin-crafted lampshade.

' _This damn brat, someone needs to knock some sense into_ _'im_ _,'_ Ikkaku grunted inwardly.

He felt like an indignant parent who'd caught his kid talking to some weirdo at the park. He just wanted to shake him until he grasped the depths of his perilous stupidity, shake him as if he could shake out the bad behavior. Ikkaku wasn't exactly a boy scout himself, but Yumichika's antics made his behavior seem like grad school shenanigans at best. Where was this guy's line? Did he have one, did he even know what a line was? Had he crossed it so far that he could no longer see it? More importantly, did he even care? Maybe Ikkaku shouldn't have cared so much; he'd just met the guy, but if Yumichika didn't care, then someone sure had to. One day those mortal combat moves would meet their match and no amount of hypnotic flirting would be able to maneuver him out of it. Still, Ikkaku got a bit of comfort from knowing that, at least while Yumi was with him, he didn't have to worry about him becoming the newest segment on the six o'clock news.

After they arrived on the island, Ikkaku parked further inland to protect his bike from the rising tide. Salt would be liquid death for the machine. They'd parked rather close to the lighthouse. Yumichika took time in slinging off his helmet rather carelessly before undoing his braid and shaking out his luscious coiffure. He ran his nimble fingers through the strands a few times before abandoning care and allowing the wind to slosh it every which way. A glint of jubilation lit up his moon-highlighted features as he spun around a couple of times, whirling in the wind and breathing deeply, using all of his senses to take in the seaside panorama. The way he seemed so engulfed in the moment, so overtaken by the rawness of the elements, so present, it looked as if this was the first he'd experienced it. He was like a blind person seeing for the first time, only with all of his senses. It was absolutely captivating to watch someone be so bewitched and reanimated by things most people would give a pacing glance to. The churlish man wondered what it was like to see the world through Yumichika-hued eyes, to see beauty and excitement in such trivial things. Still Ikkaku couldn't escape the bleak reality that this could all be some drug-induced moment of blitheness, an otherwise fascinating spectacle alloyed by doubt and suspicion. Was this Yumichika or was this just another one of the man's veneers? Was life just one big motion picture to him in which the time between his fixes were black-screened intermissions?

The train of thought earned a grunt and a roll of the eyes as Ikkaku bent down to retrieve his helmet that Yumichika had oh-so-considerately slung into the sand. He carelessly stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, breaking Yumichika from his sensory hypnosis when he finally came up with something to say. "Ya' know, people say this place is haunted."

For a brief moment, Ikkaku's presence seemed lost on the man. His mauve orbs stared off wistfully, seemingly enchanted.

" _That look, that's_ _…_ _"_ Ikkaku thought back to the introspective and ethereal Yumichika that Ikkaku had spent days analyzing from a far. Just that shimmer of the beauty's seemingly secret identity was enough to expel the dreary train of thought, at least for the moment. How could he call Yumi Sweet and Low when he was obviously as dulcet as sugar? It seemed a crime against all things beautiful to call the man cubic zirconia when he was obviously as golden as a diamond. Still, as they say, love is blind, and even gold plating looked like pure gold from far away. He had to get closer, although, no matter how close you get, if you're blind, the void all seems the same.

As of now, Ikkaku was so blind that even Helen Keller couldn't help him, because when Yumichika finally turned to him with the cutest and most devious grin, Ikkaku had to stop himself from pulling a Renji.

' _What's this Criss Angle_ _Fuckery_ _? He just smiled at me and I get all worked up, like it's some kinda' magic trick,"_ Ikkaku griped inwardly. Maybe Yumichika was some kind of modern day witch, Wiccan, Pagan or whatever that hocus-pocus shit was called. Maybe he spent his time cultivating special herbs from back alley magic shops, not the ones you get high off of, but the ones that make people get high off of you. Maybe he spent his night in a coven of other magically inclined sexually exuberant heretics, situated in summoning circles, calling upon some never heard of deity to do their bidding. Maybe 'The Craft' had it right all along and Yumichika was the gay Neve Campbell. Either way, the first sign of some weird crystals or some ambiguous Latin-transcribed spell book, and he'd run for the hills, possibly all the way back to the church.

As If Yumichika had heard his thought and was mocking his delusional ill-adapted brain, he asked playfully, "You wanna' do a séance?"

Ikkaku merely grunted and countered, "I don't even like talkin' to the living. Like hell I wanna' talk to the dead."

Already moving towards the lighthouse, Yumichika poised flippantly, "The dead probably have much more relevant things to say than most living people. They're stuck with nothing but time to self-reflect, but no one to tell it to. It's tragically beautiful, actually."

The way Yumichika just started talking about death in such a lackadaisical manner, as if it was on his list of small talk topics and he was simply stating how shitty the weather was, was an oddly macabre thing for Ikkaku to experience, although it wasn't as if it was this creepy, malignant, monster-under-your-bed type darkness, more like a profound and almost metaphorical Edgar Allen Poe darkness, as if his life's truths were hidden in the eclipse of such morbidity. Still Ikkaku didn't really know Yumichika, but he had a feeling he was the type who found small talk frivolous and only said something when he found it significant.

Sneering slightly at the comment, trying to keep up with the pace of the stimulant-driven man as his heavy boots sunk into the sand, Ikkaku counter candidly, "The way I see it, if you didn't say whatcha' had to say when you're alive, ya' missed your chance."

Something about Ikkaku's words sparked a more playful side, as Yumichika cocked an eyebrow wryly. "All I'm hearing is that you're scared. All of those muscles and you're scared of a little ectoplasm." Giving a smug giggle that Ikkaku couldn't help but to think was the giggle to rival all other giggles, Yumichika taunted, "It is always the ones who look tough that are the biggest scaredy-cats."

A scared Ikkaku? That was an oxymoron, like gourmet pizza or a stripper's dressing room. Ikkaku laughed in the face of danger. He could partake in a horror-thon without flinching once, even while Renji and Ichigo were practically getting fresh with each other at every cliché jump scare. He could stroll through gang riddled parts of town without giving it so much as a passing thought, or even eat a piece of sushi that had fallen on their ambiguously-stained yellow couch. He didn't get scared, not since he'd been a kid and still believed in monsters under the bed.

"Pfh-" Ikkaku denounced, wondering why he wasn't feeling his usual fight-ready indignity at someone challenging his toughness. "Can't be scared of something that's not real."

"Not true," Yumichika countered bluntly and quickly. "Everyone is scared of things that don't exist or things that are just legends. Whether it's using cell phones at a gas station, demons, or gods, everyone spends their lives scared of something that will never affect them." Smirking slightly, he went on rather loquaciously, "It's the things people _should_ be scared of that most people never give a second thought to, like the perils of the age of accelerating technology or the next mass extinction." Shrugging his shoulders carelessly, he poised, "Alas, people are overwhelmingly stupid. It's quite ugly."

Yumichika's ranting almost reminded Ikkaku of when Ichigo would go on one of his social justice tangents or start spewing stuff that he thought was somehow profound. When he did, Ikkaku just blocked 'im out, automatically taking what he was saying as try-hard bullshit, even though he knew that was truly just the person Ichigo was.

However, the way Yumi made in-depth observation so casually, as just base conversation, made him realize that Yumichika was truly a special breed, that the way he thought about things was in stark contrast to Ikkaku's more simple-mindedness. More so, Ikkaku didn't really give consideration to a lot of things. It wasn't that he was stupid by any means; he just saw things in very simple and direct ways and never cared much about the world around him to think about things like that. What truly perplexed him was that, even if he never changed and always thought about things in the most simplistic manner, he wanted to listen to every dactylic idiom that came out of this man's cheeky mouth, because even not knowing the man very well, he could tell that it's wasn't just some la-di-da overblown artsy gibberish - it was just his unalloyed thoughts. When Yumichika spoke, he wasn't spewing some vapid trite garbage like so many people Ikkaku had met. When he spoke, he made sure what he was saying was worth the wrinkles that would be yielded from the complex network of facial contractions. It only made Ikkaku more curious, it only made him want to sit around and listen to every smug intellectual word he said.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was how they seemed like complete opposites that attracted him so heavily. He couldn't be sure. All he knew was, this was the first person that had ever made him want to stop and listen, and that the most beautiful parts of Yumi weren't things that could be viewed on the outside.

Ikkaku had just grunted in rebuttal, not really having anything to add. It seemed true enough. However, before there was even time for there to be any awkward silences, Yumichika burst out into a spirt, yelling over his shoulder, "Let's find out if ghosts are real. If you're not scared, that is." 

For a short moment, Ikkaku just stood in bemused shock before he took off after him. Yumichika: a thrill-seeking, drug-using, darkly intelligent, smart-mouth DJ, and now a ghost-hunter, apparently.

' _What's up with this guy? I can't ever figure out what he's going to do next_ , _'_ Ikkaku wondered, running in pursuit until he entered the murky abandoned lighthouse. He looked around the shadowy and webbed burnished cavity. It was obvious upon arrival that Yumichika wasn't on the bottom floor.

"Where did that damn kid go?" he pondered aloud before moving to the winding stairwell. The whole experience felt weird, like he was in one of those obviously fake ghost-hunting shows, creeping from room to room waiting for something to pop out at him, although he had to admit, he was actually having a lot of fun. This was different from the usual shenanigans he got into with the band, which was pretty much, drink, play, eat, repeat. It induced Ikkaku's thrill-loving maniacal side, kind of like when he played the drum or rode his motorcycle, only on steroids. He didn't have to know everything about Yumichika to know he enjoyed his company more than most.

' _He's one night of fun that'll just leave you wanting more.'_ Ikkaku grunted at the memory of Melrose's advice. Was this what Melrose was talking about? Maybe all of Yumichika's suitors were under this same spell and left wanting more. What made him different from any of those other guys? Would Yumichika just throw him aside like that, and if so, how did he stop that from happening? What could he do different than all of the other poor saps that were clotheslined by Yumichika's vibrant vibes? What could he do to make _Yumichika_ want more? The whole thought process seemed extraneous and unlike him. All he could do was be himself and not give in, and if Yumichika turned him away, he'd get over it.

Ikkaku moved from the first tier to the second, clogging his heavy boots up the cement stairwell. When he crossed the archway into the dank room, all Ikkaku could see was the dancing of penumbra, only existing because of a singular window letting in the light of the aglow celestial bodies.

After a brief moment of scanning the room, Ikkaku started to walk to the other side, but was interrupted by the alarming escapade of Yumichika jumping from behind a nook and scaring the living shit out of him. As with any normal frightened animal, Ikkaku's fight-or-flight instincts were throw into over gear, and Ikkaku never flew anywhere. Intuitively, he let out a loud 'fuck' while releasing a raging fist of mass and velocity into the darkness, only to pull back before his certifiable deadly weapons could make contact with anything. Not that it would have matter - Yumichika swiftly and dexterously slid out of the trajectory of the fist and was curled over in a brief moment of gut wrenching hysterics.

"What the fuck?" Ikkaku huffed, "Ya' don' go around doin' shit like that unless ya' wanna' take a hit."

After most of his laughter died down, Yumichika dabbed at his tear-brimmed eyes, straightened his ensemble, and adjusted his hair. Still snickering lightly, he taunted smugly, "And what was that about not being scared? Oh, I only wish it was lighter in here so I could have seen- Pfh-" He giggled harder before taunting the man more. "If you'd like to fight me, I'm more than happy to oblige, but if you messed up my face, I would not go easy on you." Throwing Ikkaku that sense-sucking grin, he said, "Then again, you are more bark than bite, yes?"

Ikkaku felt the weirdest sensation of prideful and amused. His piss-offed-ness turned into more of a challenging flame at the man's prodding. He was having fun, genuine fun, and even though Yumichika's words stroked his more boastful side, he knew they were not meant malignantly. That sassy mouth was kerosene to a flame roving within the spirited man. That mouth was dangerous. Ikkaku's heart was in that mouth and Yumichika was a notorious man eater.

Feeling a sense of careless abandonment, Ikkaku decided to make a decision and forgo any second thoughts, as this was his usual course of action. It was time to show the brat that Ikkaku was just as smug as he was and just as devil-may-care when he wanted to be.

Without explanation or word, Ikkaku picked up Yumichika by the legs and heaved him over his shoulder. The floundering DJ was squirming all around and failing his arms, his indignant voice in stark contrast to the laughs spilling from him. "Put me down, you brute!"

Ikkaku just stood there smirking wildly, effortlessly lifting the man as if he was a piece of plywood at his construction site. Arrogantly, he asked, "Whatcha' say about all bark no bite? Seem's ta' me you're the one stuck. Don't worry, I'll put cha' down when we get to the top, since you seem ta' have a habit of runnin' away."

Still writhing in all awkward kinds of positions to hopefully release himself, Yumichika boomed through laughter, "You better keep your hands off my merchandise. I practice Sharīʿah law, but I won't be taking your hands."

Of all the ways this date could go, Ikkaku was sure becoming a veritable Ken doll for the rest of his days was the worst, so he anchored his hands where they wouldn't even mistakenly slip to somewhere that could be misconstrued as intimate. It was all calf action, though, if anyone's calves could be considered sexual or beautiful, Ikkaku was sure it be Yumichika. Smacking his teeth like he was offended by the sheer notion of wondering hands, Ikkaku countered with a voice of cockiness, "I was raised right. I know how to mind my own hands."

Ikkaku carried the laughing DJ like he was some kind of damsel in distress and he was the greenhorn bumbling knight in tattered leather, running to the top of the tower, not out of it. He ignored Yumi's flippant comments about how his jeans were name brand R13 Denim and his threats of what would happen if he messed them up.

Upon entering the glass-encased lantern room, Ikkaku mocked, "Geez, here ya' go Princess fucking Diana, your jeans somehow made the trip."

After the vertigo subsided, Yumichika rolled his eyes and made sure his outfit was pristine, as if to doubt to validity of Ikkaku's opinion. With a light chuckle, he pointed out offhandedly, "Princess Diana is dead, you know. Are you saying I look like a corpse?"

With an even bigger roll of the eyes, Ikkaku said bluntly, "Give me a break. Do I look like the type of guy who knows the names of many princesses?"

Turning away from the man, Yumichika said just as causally, "Ah, well I guess I don't mind the comparison. She did die at the peak of her beauty and youth before anyone could sully it. There's an alluring dignity in that."

There it was again, that dark pained aura that seeped from him as he said such vaguely grim sentiments. What caused him to think such things, and what were the hidden truths shrouded within the obscured words and the nonchalant manner of saying them? Every lexeme was a clue, a bread crumb that lead to the raw and naked Yumichika. Ikkaku couldn't help it. He wanted to dive deeper into the mystery until there was only one way out, because every time he looked at the perplexing man, all he could think was 'what's going on in his head?' He knew it was so much more than his words were conveying.

More so, what really concerned Ikkaku was how Yumichika seemed comfortable to speak about things in such a mild manner to someone he'd only known for an hour. That made him wonder, was Yumi so loose-lipped about his inner thoughts because he had no intentions of seeing Ikkaku after tonight? Despite how vague his words were, for anyone who was paying attention, there seemed to be some entombed calamity scratching at the surface, a repressed pain that was buried alive six feet deep and was now leaving scratch marks in the wood. Maybe that was just it, maybe no one paid attention. Ikkaku couldn't be sure, but the way he said something so morbid so casually didn't sit right with him. It felt too much like a person trying to cover up their emotions by morphing them into something humorous or lighthearted.

All giddy like, Yumichika sashayed around in a full three sixty before pulling on a hatch and opening up one of the glass walls to let in the hefty breeze of the rolling tide. Yumichika stared out into the obsidian harum-scarum of a cacophony with wanderlust in his eyes. Bracing his pierced face against the howling winds while breathing in the ambiance with the whole power of his diaphragm, in a halcyon tone, he observed, "Isn't it beautiful, all of that raw arcane fury? I do love coming to the ocean." He ranted on. "Only about ten percent of the ocean has been explored, but it covers over seventy percent of the earth," he informed, never taking his eyes off of the scenic view. "I'm always so captivated whenever I come. I suppose I feel a kinship to that uncontrollable mystery."

In his garrulous manner, Yumichika hadn't let Ikkaku get in a word in edgewise, but he didn't mind. He'd never been the biggest talker. More so, Ikkaku was drinking down those words like they were Gager-Bombs and he'd just been challenged to a drinking contest, just getting more and more inebriated by the syllable, sure that they would affect his frontal lobe till the point he was making risky decisions, like becoming too attached in the moment.

Ardently, Yumichika pointed across the dimness towards the horizon. His gaze was directed towards the silhouette of some sort of boat with a singular lantern perched from the top. It was getting rather late, or early, depending on if you're an early riser or a night owl, so Ikkaku figured the man must be one of the uncountable amount of street-side fisherman who sold their own catches. Perking his eyebrow, Yumichika jested, "Perhaps it's Charon."

Throwing the man a bemused squint of the eyes, Ikkaku asked, "Shara-wha'?"

Now leaning against the brass railing, much too close to falling over and becoming beautiful fish food for Ikkaku's comfort, Yumichika explained, "Charon, he's Hades' ferryman in Greek mythology. He guides new souls to the underworld with his lantern. Of course, if they could pay the toll, that is."

With a breathy and short chuckle, Ikkaku mocked, "Or it's just a fisherman."

Yumichika smiled once more and returned the light chuckle. "Well that's no fun. Where's your sense of imagination?"

"Uhh, sorry," Ikkaku said, trying to joke, "I guess I only got the five normal senses." He rolled his eyes at how corny he thought he sounded and how absolutely shitty he was at this. His James Bond style moves must have been all an adrenalin-explained fluke, because now he was wondering how people actually talked to someone they liked. He was actually starting to relate to Renji, that cherry blow-pop of a man. That walking box of puppies who was not just struck, but gutted by cupid's arrow, was starting to become less and less hard to berate. It gave an all new meaning to catching feelings. The remediless inflections affected his body and mind, giving him side effects like tongue inertia and utter lameness.

Everything he'd think to say rather sounded pathetically dorky, desperate, or boorish, and when he tried to just talk without thinking, his voice magically stopped working. He dissected and decoded his words as if they were pyramid style hieroglyphics, almost figuring that one of his prosaic and awkward sentiments would be the key to getting a man like Yumichika interested in him. It seemed unlikely though, since operation control seemed to be down upstairs and he probably rivaled a ball of lint when it came to being engaging. The baldy with the balls was MIA, the alarms were all going off and it was not a drill. Every thought seemed so stupid that it was like he was like scripting the dialogue for a new 'Dumb and Dumber' movie in his head. Yes, the lights were on, but no one was home, or they _were_ home and were just hiding in the bathtub with a bottle of gin, too self-deprecated to say anything.

To his surprise, Yumichika let out a genuine laugh. Perhaps it was a pity laugh, but seeing as Ikkaku felt pretty pathetic, he took what he could get. "When I was little, my mother use to tell my all the different mythologies. It was a hobby of hers. I'm still fond of it now that I'm older," he explained.

This felt strangely date-like to Ikkaku. This whole get to know each other tit for tat, where you started chatting about each other's interest or your childhood pets, or if you're really plucky, the embarrassing story where you accidentally mooned your whole class in the sixth grade. Bare bone shit. Fundamentals of dating 101. Ikkaku couldn't help but wonder if that's what was going on. It had to be, right? Him being such a big league dating connoisseur with his whopping three date credentials, he couldn't _possibly_ be wrong. However, what really got to him was the fact that Yumichika had seemed to drop that better-than-thou, 'bow down to me exterior' he had been rocking. Sure, he was being smug, but it was the same way he or the other band members could be smug - there was nothing hateful behind it.

"Of course, I enjoyed goddesses like Aphrodite, but I also enjoyed the stories of Charon and Hades. When I got older, I liked the idea that if there was an afterlife, no matter how you behaved, everyone went to the same place. Morals are relative, right? So no matter what your title is or how beautiful you think you are, or how good or bad, we're all the same on a base level. We're all the same at the end." Raising his perfectly arched eyebrow, he boasted, "Though, if anyone could get VIP treatments for their looks, it would be me."

Ikkaku smirked in Yumichika's direction. The man's words were like his 1971 Vinyl of Led Zeppelin IV: he could listen to them all day. He honestly couldn't give any good reason why, but he was so interested. Even if it was different than him, the way Yumi thought about things, he loved it. It was his mind and music that kept him so hooked to every last anecdote. "You sound like some philosophy major or somethin'," Ikkaku found himself teasing as he leaned cross-armed against the railing, stealing glances at Yumichika as Yumichika stole glances at the ocean.

Yumichika's face tautened as he narrowed his eyes at Ikkaku. Irately, he pondered, "And if I am? Let me guess, you're going to say it's a huge waste of time and money or that I'm some glorified barista in the making?"

"Shit, you expect the worst out of people, dontcha'?" Ikkaku assessed with a huff. He didn't appreciate the unjust assumptions, but still, the assumption was another bread crumb.

Yumichika's gave a dubious glare and said, "It's hard not to when people flaunt their worst sides like it's the newest season's denim…" He paused momentarily and directed his gaze back at the brightening sky. Impassively, he asked, "So, what were you going to say?"

Brusquely, Ikkaku shrugged his shoulders slightly and responded, "I don't think doing or learning more about something you love is ever a waste. Even if ya' don't make a bunch of money or any at all, that's not what matters. Shit, I've been in college an extra year just because I took all of the percussion and music theory classes. Not because I thought I was going ta' get a job with it or something - it's not even a part of my major. I just do it because it's what I like ta' do. I can't see how that's a waste. I mean, ain't that what life's all about?"

Still turned towards the landscape, Ikkaku could see the slightest smirk on Yumi's face as he said, "You play the drums, huh? Such an ungraceful instrument seems like it would fit you rather well," he teased.

"Hey now!" Ikkaku bellowed indignantly, probably more indignantly than he should have, but hey, you can mess with him, but messing with his drums was like poking fun at his very essence. "Watch what ya' say! Drums are the heartbeat of fucking music. They set the whole rhythm for everyone else. Tch- It ain't gotta' be graceful to be good, which I am."

For reason unbeknownst to Ikkaku, Yumichika beamed brightly and let out a laugh whose authenticity couldn't be questioned. "Well," he reassured genuinely, "if it's something you're that passionate about, then I'm sure it's very beautiful in its own way."

When Yumichika shot him a smile, he thought he may have melted right where he stood. He was the most beautiful person Ikkaku had ever seen, especially with pearly whites gaping his usually so casual face. He wasn't sure exactly what he'd said to yield such a reaction, but if he could harness whatever magic had been behind those words, he'd always keep it right on the tip of his tongue if it meant seeing that smile all the time.

Rekindling some of his voyeuristic ways, he stared curiously at the man for a few moments too long before Yumichika's smile morphed into something that looked like a mix of irritated and disgusted.

The supercilious man let out a haughty and breathy huff before flipping his hair. "Is this the part where you try to put those beastly paws on me?"

Not that Ikkaku had the intention or had even thought about feeling up on Yumichika, but did the guy have to say it like it was the most disgusting thing in the universe and possibly multiverse? The look on his face made it seem like he'd just been asked to lick the inside of a dirty shoe, or listen to a Kid's Bop cd, or had seen someone wearing a garment with two mismatching patterns - utterly repulsed by the notion. More so, Ikkaku wasn't sure if this disgust was for him or for any of the men he went out with. Didn't Yumichika think that when he flirted with these suitors and had them whisk him off on some thrill ride, they may end up thinking he was propositioning him? Was that not what he was doing? Melrose had labeled the man as a tease, not a slut. Ikkaku didn't get it all. He didn't get Yumichika's gain in this or why he'd chosen to indulge in risky business with men he never had any intentions of sleeping with. What exactly was his end game in this? Perhaps there was no point at all, and that was the point.

Still, Yumichika's bitchy side was a facet Ikkaku had learned he was good at dealing with, much better than when the man smiled at him and the world would morph into some happy-go-lucky gumdrop, rainbow palace, the game Candy Land personified, where he'd get too sick from the sweetness of it all to do anything but feel nauseated.

With a nasal scoff, Ikkaku pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and jolted the pack slightly, popping out a cigarette. Before he let the cancer stick jaundice his lips, he replied, "Nope, this is the part where I smoke."

Yumichika's face immediately melted into something that looked almost apologetic, but Ikkaku had a feeling that 'Yumi apologized about as often as the band cleaned the studio. Snootily, he said, "Smoking truly is the ugliest addiction. If you're going to get cancer, at least do it in an attractive fashion." Wrinkling his nose begrudgingly, "You wear your habit in your scent."

"Funny," Ikkaku took no time to reply, "coming from a guy who snorts dust like a vacuum cleaner." They say most are born with a filter, but whoever had molded Ikkaku must have been in a rush that day, because his was rather broken or nonexistent. Maybe Ishida was right and he did have a brain tumor, because whatever part of your brain made you care about other people's opinions was being blocked by something the size of the Berlin Wall, though a mini Mister Kennedy must have been stationed by that filter blocking barrier, declaring, 'Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall,' because it was crumbling.

Though his words could be harsh, they were usually about as malicious as they were lies, but even he knew implying someone was a junkie, whom he'd known for about two hours, was worse than harsh. He could practically see the words leave his mouth, and if it were possible, he'd grab those animated sound waves and stifle them, but it was too late. He said it.

At Ikkaku's parapraxis, Yumichika gave the biggest mocking laugh, a fraudulent clap of praise included. "Bravo, bravo, you've known me for all of two hours and you've pinned me down _perfectly._ You cracked the case, detective." He went on in an obviously constrained irritation, his rancor feeling well deserved. "I'm some strung-out junkie with my nose buried in a bag of coke. Marvelously shrewd of you." Yumichika wasn't all to certain why, for no one's opinions ever mattered to him, but he felt the need to prove himself to this man. Maybe it was because Ikkaku was the only man he'd ever spent time with who'd called him out or questioned his drug use, but for whatever reason, he didn't want Ikkaku to think lowly of him.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out the twisted-up cellophane and dangled it in front of Ikkaku's face almost tauntingly so. "You see this?" Flippantly, he flicked his wrist and let at least two hundred dollars' worth of freely obtained drugs be whisked away on the wind and into the mercy of the ocean. "It means nothing to me." Yumichika was speaking rather calmly but there was an obvious anger and sarcasm backing every word. Ikkaku had gotten to him, something he'd been sure nobody could do.

For a moment, Yumichika thought about storming off all dramatically so, in true queen fashion, but remembered he was on an island and at least forty minutes away from his house. Sure, a man like Yumichika could easily seduce a local into taking him off the island free of charge, but it being early enough for just the first bit of orange ember to blaze the darkness, it could be a while before he found someone willing.

"A'right', a'right'!" Ikkaku placated, his voice sounding almost annoyed from his eagerness. "Look, I always just say what I'm thinking, and sometimes I say stupid shit. That's just who I am. I don't know much about… uh… drugs or whatever it is you do."

"Or me," Yumichika interrupted, his arms wrapped around his chest in a bratty fashion.

"Yeah," Ikkaku agreed, his voice now a little more even. "Especially you, but I want to," he said honestly. This made Yumichika look up to him with intrigue and confusion as he finished. "I don't have to be an expert to know how quickly that stuff can hurt ya'. I'm not tryin' to be an asshole. I just care if you get hurt or not, dammit. Don'tcha' worry about yourself?" Now Ikkaku was dishing out honestly like it was a free sample at Costco. Once his mouth got going, there was no stopping it.

This only yielded a longer more bewildered look from the beautiful DJ. He found himself wondering who this enigma of a man was. None of the men he frequented even batted an eye at his drug use. Most of the time they'd partaken with him, hoping to have some stimulant-driven tryst. Of course, they were all left disappointed, but that didn't stop them from trying. They all wanted _something_ from him, and he was sure Ikkaku was no different. This Good Guy Chucky act wasn't fooling him - he knew underneath, just like everyone else, there was a vicious desperate horn dog. If he thought this whole sensitive and caring facade would impress Yumichika, he was gravely mistaken, not when Yumi was the Barbra Streisand of putting on a show. Still, the concern that Yumichika considered to be fraudulent had gotten more of a reaction than he thought it should. This man's straightforwardness, the way he never held his tongue - it got to him. More worrisome, it was oddly attractive to Yumichika, which was just another reason to never see the man after tonight. The questions had backed him into a corner, dulled his tongue; they were quite literately the cat that had snatched up the word forming muscle.

However, a mixture of the fact he'd never see this man again, other than in passing, and a disconcerting need to be as straightforward as the nameless man in front of him, yielded an honest response. "Everyone has to die at some point. It's the quality of life that matters, not the quantity." He paused momentarily before looking Ikkaku in his troubled eyes. "I would rather go earlier than later, before my looks and youth fade and I can be thrown away like some outdated painting."

Ikkaku took no time in forming his indignant response. "You can't actually believe that," he boomed rather passionately.

Yumichika just netted his brow at the response his words received, not really understanding why they seemed to upset him so much. "Of course," he assured, his voice somewhere between serious and casual, as if to show he'd meant what he'd said but that it wasn't all that big of a deal, at least to him. "Beautiful people are like diamonds," he compared while looking into the distance. "Diamonds, they cost a ton, but what most people don't know is that they're completely worthless. They're only so expensive because one company holds a monopoly on them, but they're truly worth nothing. Still, people like material objects, they like to have something beautiful that they can flaunt. Beautiful people are the same. People love us because we're like accessories that can be flaunted and used, but like diamonds, once we lose our gleam, we're easily disposable. Worthless."

For a moment, Ikkaku found himself speechless in the face of such a twisted perspective. It made him wonder, what tragedy was the cause for such jaded words? Who was the cause of this? Who was the execrable piece of human waste that had pressed their foot so deep within Yumichika's self-worth that he actually believed such things about himself? More so, the way he'd said it, as if it was just a fact of life and Ikkaku was just naive for not thinking otherwise, it twisted at his stomach, filling his heart with a heated anger. Behind such a wounded individual, there was always some bastard standing with a bloody knife. At the man's words, Ikkaku was torn between wanting to find that urchin and bury them as low as they'd made Yumichika feel or doing everything within his power to reverse this brainwashing, to prove how wrong Yumichika was. Forgoing his fight-readiness, he knew there was only one way he could truly help Yumi, and throwing punches was not involved.

"Tch," he smacked his gums, his anger now more contained. "You're so much more than beautiful, Yumichika," he declared, forgetting this whole stranger act.

The DJ flinched slightly at the declaration attached to his name. They had only known each other for a couple of hours yet, by the way Ikkaku acted like he knew him and the way he'd said his name, Yumichika had a feeling that this man had sought him out. At first, he'd assumed that Ikkaku had just overheard him at the bar and had decided to ask him out, but that didn't seem to be the case. Even so, Yumichika felt as if this man hadn't earned the right to make such assumptions about him. They were disingenuous because Ikkaku didn't know a damn thing about him. He didn't know the things he had been through or the life he had lived. He didn't see the dark nooks and crannies of his mind or the person he could truly be. Maybe Yumichika was more than beautiful, but none of those other traits were what really mattered, not to the world, anyway. It dawned on Yumichika that maybe this man really was pure of personal motives, or at least he thought himself to be, but like everyone else, he'd eventually want something or Yumichika would encroach Ikkaku's pureness with his brokenness. Despite the intrigue Yumichika felt towards the man, he wouldn't let Ikkaku get close enough to realize how wrong he was about him.

Somewhat somberly, Yumichika said, "I see my reputation precedes me. Do I live up to the rumors?"

"I don't pay any mind to rumors," Ikkaku said frankly. "I'm trying to get to know ya'. I didn't come here to judge ya'." When Yumichika pursed his lips and nodded his head, Ikkaku put on an impish grin and said, "For instance, you're way more smug than anyone gave you credit for."

At the teasing, Yumichika couldn't help to smirk back. "You would be too if you were this beautiful."

"I'm plenty smug enough," he reasoned. "It ain't got nothin' ta' do with my mug though. I'm already pretty amazin', wouldn't be fair if I was a pretty boy too."

Yumichika laughed before saying, "Perhaps you're one of the few people whose beauty comes from within, though you're not so bad looking." He added on humorously, "With a lot of cleaning up, you could even pass for attractive."

"Tch," Ikkaku castigated. "I don't put stock into shit like that. That's how I know you're a whole lot more than some pretty face because I wouldn't be here if that was the case."

Frowning slightly and averting his eyes, Yumichika invalidated, "You don't even know me."

"Yeah, but I want to," he repeated. Not giving Yumichika a moment to respond, he introduced, "I'm Ikkaku Madarame, the guy who'd like to take ya' on a date tomorrow."

Yumichika almost wanted to smile at him. He was such a charmer, but in the weirdest way. He was loud, brutally honest, kind of awkward, smug, and straightforward. He was Ikkaku. However, Yumichika just huffed and met those challenging orbs with equal intensity. "Sometimes you should listen to rumors, Ikkaku."

"Why would I do that when I could get ta' know ya' myself?" asked Ikkaku.

"Because," Yumi responded in almost a whisper, "The idea of me is a lot better than the actual me."

Ikkaku was about to say, 'let me be to judge of that' or something like that, but Yumichika was already speaking up again. With a hand over his brow in attempt to shield the blinding glow of daybreak, he said, "It's really early, we should be heading back."

Not wanting to press the issue and come off as pushy, Ikkaku dropped the subject of a second date, at least for the moment. However, after tonight, there was no way he was giving up - not a chance in a hell. After meeting Yumichika and feeling such an unrecognizable connection, he couldn't imagine not ever being able to revel in it. Somehow, someway, he'd show to Yumichika that the word beautiful didn't even begin to describe him. Past all the webbed and murky parts of his psyche, past the drugs and the thrill seeking, past the intrepid DJ who prowled for a different man every weekend, was a radiance that outshone everything else. A light that someone had obviously tried to put out was still flickering brightly; it just took someone paying attention to notice it.

 **xXx**

 **Jazzybella: Ek! Hey love, I hope you like this chapter and how I characterize their characters. More so, thank you for always reviewing! I don't get many reviews on this story(You were the only one who reviewed my last chapter), but even one review is enough to motivate me. :) Thank you.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Hey guys! Thank you for all whom read up till this point, it means so much. More so, the feedback on this story is good and that only motivates me more. For this chapter, it's mostly character development and it sets up a more important scene that will take place the chapter after next. I worked really hard on Byakuya's character, and I hope you enjoy him. I know some people tend to characterize him in a more mild manner, but I have a very specific way I like to characterize him: Haunting, arrogant, a sharp tongue deadpan snark master, and introspective. I love his character and I hope you enjoy him also. Also, take in mind that a lot of this chapter is humorous dialogue and the style is slightly different. Since this chapter is shorter and merely a set up, I didn't put as much effort into the meticulousness of each line, (It's been a hard week and I'm having a total writers lag) though I still tried to make this very enjoyable and fun to read.**

 **Your comments mean so much and your appreciation of this story means even more. Writing is a very personal experience for me, so when others read my stories, it's like they're seeing parts of me slewed throughout. For instance, every place I talk about, from the bars, to the inlet, to the studio, these are the places I spent my younger more intrepid days at. These are the roads and staples of my very early college years. For that reason, it mean's a lot to share this story. Thank you for being apart of that!**

 **Good vibes! As always, I'll respond to comments at the bottom. Thank you for anyone who's just now fav/followed this and please give me your feedback.**

 **xXx**

 _And I hold you close in the back of my mind._

 _Raise my glass 'cause either way I'm dead._

 _Neither of you really help me to sleep anymore_

 _One breaks my body and the other breaks my soul_

 _La Cienega just smiles, waves goodbye Ryan Adams - La Cienega Just Smiled_

 **xXx**

 **He Lit A Fire**

 **xXx**

In the solitude of his classroom, Professor Kuchiki looked down begrudgingly at a piece of paper that had more red marks than a pimply faced adolescent, and it was just as gross as one too. To call it an essay would be a gracious, if not _delusional_ over exaggeration; it was more like a walking comma splice. A full case study on Nathaniel Hawthorn's 'A Scarlet Letter' was what this essay was _supposed_ to be depicting, but in Byakuya's not so humble opinion, it depicted everything that was wrong with the American education system. He was sure that Hawthorn would do summersaults in his grave if he knew one of his best works was being rehashed by a 'student' who didn't even know the difference between effect and affect. If Hawthorn could, he'd pull a Kill Bill and bust right out from his dirt slumber, ready to enact his revenge for such dishonor.

Thus was the life of a literature professor, a life filled with dangling modifiers, run on sentences, and incomplete comparisons. Mostly, it was a life filled with incomplete intelligence, if not a complete lack of it. Though, in a world where anyone who knew the difference between their and they're yielded a self-adorned badge of a Grammar Nazi and search engines were eroding away any authentic critical thinking, stupidity was running rampant like some kind of zombie apocalypse. He wasn't sure the infection hadn't already won, for half of these students walked around like drooling sex-driven vessels of utter mindlessness, more interested in their phones than the world around them. More so, it was nearly impossible to discern the actual point that was being made in these essays. Even if there was the smallest vestige of intelligent life within the sentences, they were all too savaged by the atom bombs of grammatical errors to be noticed.

It took every ounce of professionalism to not write 'burn this and start over' or 'return to me in correct English', or probably the harshest appraisal he'd ever marked a student's paper with, 'return to high school, you don't belong here'. Of course, he had gotten quite a few complaints on what Byakuya considered to be his constructive criticism. Students had reported him to the Dean, claiming his remarks were offensive. Oh, Wahh, boo-hoo! _YOUR_ grammar is offensive, but _YOU'RE_ too stupid to be offended by it.

Seeing as his father was the Dean of students, nothing ever came from the grievances. In fact, this was the only area of which Byakuya and his father agreed on wholeheartedly. Intelligence was a dying breed and this educational system was a holocaust.

' _What are the proficiency requirements for being accepted into university these days?'_ Byakuya griped inwardly. _'Correctly filling out the word puzzle on the back of a cereal box?'_

Shuffling through the papers felt a lot like Dante's Inferno, he was just going from one level of hell to another, each worse than the last. However, Byakuya was a big believer in saving the best for last, as he always did. He couldn't help but let a tickle of a smile brush his features in the privacy of the moment, pulling the proverbial raincloud in a drought out of the stack. Yes, Kurosaki Ichigo's paper was like seeing land after being lost in a sea of misplaced commas. Ichigo had chosen to write his essay on how women were viewed in literary works during the medieval period and how Shakespeare changed the game with powerful and riveting female characters, such as Lady It was brilliantly contrived as always. He had this innate talent of somehow making a college essay enthralling. His poetic and wonderfully crafted ideas were given life by his vivid and efficacious langue Somehow, he made Byakuya remember what he'd enjoyed about his job in the first place, he brought joy back into it. Yes, Ichigo made near perfect arguments without the hindrance of a single comma splice. Well, there was _one_ , but he'd let that slide.

Just as much as he reveled in that intelligence, it got under his skin in equal amounts, and in all the wrong ways. In Byakuya's opinion, Kurosaki was as entitled as he was perspicacious and clever. He was so smug of his own ability that he was constantly late for classes and had an overall flippant attitude about showing up at all. How it irked the professor to his core to see such latent ability be wasted by the number one enemy to all creative brainiacs: arrogance. Even Adolf Hitler was a genius cut down by his own inflated ego. Without such a perilous pride, who knows how differently the history books could have gone.

Sure, Byakuya found him arrogant and audacious, yet even though he hated to think about it, it had occurred to him that the reason it bothered him so much more than it had in the past when he'd seen other intelligent students waste away their skills was because of how much Ichigo reminded him of himself. He reminded him of himself before the truths of life had weighed down on him and made him what he considered to be much wiser. Though, some - namely his lifelong friend Yoruichi - would say that he'd became quite the opposite: jaded.

He had heard Renji and Ichigo speaking once about their band. Ichigo was the lyricist and lead singer/guitarist, much like he'd been before… well, just before. And just like Byakuya had before, he made grandiose claims of changing the world with his music. As such, his intentions were admirable, but Byakuya knew eventually he'd be knocked back down into reality, just as he himself had been.

Though he'd never been as jaunty and blithe as Ichigo in demeanor, he did share in that latent skill and in the arrogant way of thinking that money and stability were unnecessary as long as he was doing what he loved to do. How quickly the world had showed him how naive that was. More so, just to add another layer to the complexities of his feelings towards Kurosaki, deep down he enjoyed that snarky, loudmouthed, challenging aura that the man gave off. Equally, he despised it, because it truly not only reminded him of his younger less weary self, but the boy somehow made him ache nostalgically for things he'd given up in the past. Ichigo was like a living ghost for the professor, embodying every sacrifice he had made in attempts to escape his mistakes. Ichigo was a trigger in the same way a needle is a trigger to a recovering heroin addict, he reminded him of all the dreams and desires that had become his downfall, and he couldn't allow himself to relapse.

Overall, the man drew more emotion from him than anyone had, other than family members, in years. That in itself abraded his nerves. How could some boy he barely knew provoke such a strange cocktail of frustration and infatuation in a man that barely allowed himself to feel at all? Byakuya was a glacier and Ichigo was like global warming, slowly melting away some of his frigidness.

As it always did, thoughts of Ichigo made the pocket watch situated in his trousers feel twice as heavy, twice as much of a burden. Finishing up Kurosaki's paper, he reached for the sterling silver heirloom and opened it promptly, looking down at his own personal trophy of misery, his own ghost that he refused to lay to waste.

Running his finger over the somewhat faded sepia hued portrait, he thought about what a pain seeking sadist he must me. This could account for why he found such a blatant manifestation of his antiquated solecism, Kurosaki Ichigo, to be so drawing, for sorrow was a city located in the past, and Byakuya resided there complacently. Even if the city were to go up in flames, he was sure he'd just watch as he too became a part of the ashes. Though he so badly wanted to escape the antecedent events that sent him down this path, he held tightly to this one last fossil. Perhaps it was to remind him that he was truly a man with the capability of feeling a vast range of emotions, or perhaps it was to remind himself exactly where such emotions got him. Either way, it became apparent to Byakuya that he thrived in his own pain, that it had become his constant companion, a crutch that was no better than being addicted to a substance. It was his vice, and like most transgressions, would be his subversion.

"I see I'm interrupting something personal," came an impish voice from the doorway. "Perfect timing as always."

Byakuya didn't need to look up to know who the voice belonged to, for that voice would harass him in his dreams if it could. He grunted slightly and placed the pocket watch in the top drawer of his desk as Yoruichi sauntered towards him, mocking, "Bya-boo, I didn't know you partook in such intimate things during school hours." She wiggled her eyebrows, plopping right down on his desk and atop his lesson plan. Yes, they'd been family friends since their elementary school days and liked to call each other by little endearing pet names. Yoruichi liked to call Byakuya 'Bya-boo' and he liked to call her his demon stalker from hell - out of love, of course.

The way her eyebrows danced around suggestively at the word 'intimate' made Byakuya's gut churn. He'd hadn't felt any sexual desire towards the person in that picture in ages. In complete honesty, he didn't know what he felt towards the person in that picture anymore.

Byakuya merely casually glanced in her direction before saving his lesson plan from the mercy of Yoruichi's ample bottom with one swift pull. In his usual apathetic voice, Byakuya replied, "Perhaps Urahara and yourself have some hedonic fetishes, but checking the time does nothing to stimulate me, especially _intimately."_ He wrinkled his nose slightly at the thought.

With a beaming grin, Yoruichi speculated, "Huh, you sure like to look into that _clock_ of yours with a yearning glare." Still sitting on Byakuya's desk, Yourichi tapped her fingers on the wood. "What's so enchanting about a clock?" When Byakuya only dignified her with a huff, she continued, "Maybe something else is in there, a picture, perhaps?"

Byakuya's ash orbs never wavered from his place as he continued in his masquerade of gazing over his lesson plan. Perhaps if he didn't move or even blink, she wouldn't see him and leave, though Byakuya wasn't foolish enough to believe such tactics as neglect would get him out of a conversation with this women. She was like a cat: the more she sensed you disliked her around, the more she wanted to be around you, rubbing up on his furniture, whining, monopolizing his precious time with her capricious and incessant curiosity, not to mention, leaving her stench. Byakuya was almost certain she would perch herself on his shoulder while he pissed if at all possible, all for the profit of knowing she got under his skin.

Yet the feline-like woman was truly his only friend, which gave him no alleviation. The metaphor only lent itself to a noteworthy piteous. Byakuya: the grouchy man alone with his cat. How encouraging.

In a voice that was as detached as Yoruichi's sense of boundaries, Byakuya questioned rhetorically, "Do I need to change my locks again? You know what they say, Yoruichi." His orbs became noticeably more irked as he threw her a latent threat. "Curiosity killed the cat."

This only encouraged the woman's crass nature as she lifted her exposed leg on the desk and gestured to it as if she was some Sears catalogue model. "Good thing I'm one hundred percent lady." Leaning in closer, she twisted her nose in amusement and winked at the man. "Besides, Byakuya, it's not like I went through it in hopes to find something. I thought it was cool looking and opened it up." Before flippantly jumping off of the man's desk, as if she'd decided she'd had her fun and was now bored, she suggested, "But, ya' know, If you don't want someone to find something, try not to lay it out where just anybody can grab it."

Testing out that cats have nine lives theory was growing more appealing with every meddling comment. Letting out a more than annoyed sigh, Byakuya crossed his arms and gave the woman a deliberate look. "If you're a lady, then so I am I," he countered. "Though, I suppose I can't hold a lynx as yourself responsible. It's common for cats to put their paws on anything shiny," he mocked caustically, obviously noting the argent electroplate of the pocket watch.

Blithely, the woman leaned her elbows on the professor's desk while sticking her barely decent skirt-clad bottom in the air. Not deterred, she continued, "If this is how you treat your friends, I can only imagine how you treat the people you don't like." Poking out a lip slightly, she pouted, "Your poor students."

Barely holding back a smirk, Byakuya challenged, "That's what you would call this, Professor Shihōin? A friendship?"

Yoruichi let out a derisive chuckle, finding her longtime friend's deadpan humor transparent and endearing. Though Byakuya would probably rather bedeck himself in a smelly threadbare thrift store ensemble or be tied to a chair and have his ears violated by meticulously graphic illustrations of Yoruichi and Urahara's lovemaking than admit to it, he loved running that arrogant sardonic mouth in a battle of wits. In fact, it was almost his odd way of showing affection; it had been since she'd know him as a child. He had a secret infatuation with anyone who challenged him. For anyone daring enough to try, if they were able to sit in a room with Byakuya Kuchiki for more than five minutes and swap insults like they were Pokémon cards and somehow not get offended, you'd probably be okay in his book. Though, that book was more like a Post-It Note, for not many had the gall, nor the special fusion of crazy and patience, to deal with such a deliberately vacant and abrasive personage as Byakuya Kuchiki.

Yoruichi knew he secretly enjoyed her harassment, for without her, that tongue would go idle and likely dismantle a student's whole sprit and resolve with just one insulting utterance. This was a public service, really. How many students had she seen running from his office near tears and on the verge of an existential break down? About four just this semester, and with her around, they may just manage to keep that number out of the double digits. _May_.

It wasn't as if the man was unjustly mean for the sake of being insulting. Truly, every word he said he felt was well deserved. On many occasions, he'd expressed to Yoruichi his disdain for how many students just didn't take their education seriously and how he refused to coddle them into their further complacency. He couldn't stand ignorance for the sake of ignorance. It was one thing if a student truly didn't comprehend the material and asked for assistance; he'd never turn such a request away. No, it was the scholastic inertia, the lack of provocation towards their own dwindling intellect and grades that he found mind-bogglingly offensive. To Byakuya, if you didn't even put forth the effort to pretend to care, then why were you wasting his time? Why were these slackers sucking up valuable air from the people whom needed it? For if they had no intentions on utilizing their brains, it didn't matter if they were oxygen deprived. As he saw it, they're practically brain dead as it was.

Giving a shrug of the shoulder while also giving a cursory glare around the room, Yoruichi said, "Don't worry, I won't bother you for too much longer. I have a class in twenty minutes. I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to try and get out of tomorrow tonight."

Miffed, Byakuya sighed inwardly. For months now, Yoruichi had been persistent about Byakuya meeting one of her friends. Apparently she was a case worker, and according to Yoruichi, they'd be perfect together because she was already used to hard cases. Of course, the woman rambled on, killing brain cells with trite information that Byakuya had no use for. For instance, she did hot yoga, had a golden retriever, and liked Hugh Jackman movies - like most of the female population. How terribly boring he already found her, and he hadn't even met her. She sounded like the type of women who was obsessed with pumpkin spice everything, liked Marilyn Monroe because of her "edginess"- despite never having seen any of her movies, had a tattoo of a dandelion gracefully blowing in the wind because it meant _so_ much to her, and referred to herself as enlightened while misusing the phrase Namaste, just because she liked to post inspirational quotes on her blog and drank Kale smoothies. The thought of having to fake interest while she talked about her Mary Kay parties and how much she loved The Beatles, of course, only after watching Across the Universe, was repulsive. And when he brought up Ringo Starr, just to test the validity of her Beatles fandom, and she asked if that was some kind of traveling circus act, how could he possibly be expected to wrestle back the perfectly crafted caustic insults that had been sitting patiently at the back of his throat?

Byakuya was not exactly what one would call an optimist.

As persistent as Yoruichi had been, Byakuya was equally steadfast about Yoruichi staying out of his love life. That's when Yoruichi would kindly and eagerly remind him he had no love life to stay out of. Byakuya made it clear that if he was interested in vapid self-important women, he'd have taken up the offers of one of his countless female colleagues who had propositioned him, for the university was like a sweatshop that specialized in undesirable women, pumping out cheaply made, morally dubious temptresses. The mesmeric and well-endowed man was so often surrounded by gold diggers that you would think he was the personification of the 1848 California Gold Rush and the women were desperate immigrants adorned with mining hats and picks.

Unfortunately, for Byakuya that is, Yoruichi was tenacious. More so, she did not play fair. The mischievous woman was not above foul play; in fact, she preferred it, for it stroked her playful side. It didn't take too many rejections until Yoruichi had taken it upon herself to make Byakuya a fake dating profile and sent his email address and number to all kinds of fluky women and men. Try as he might, he still could not erase the lewd unsolicited images that he'd become victim to from his memory. Perhaps only therapy could reverse such trauma. When this tactic of warfare failed, Yoruichi plastered flyers around the school that read: 'Byakuya Kuchiki: looking for a girlfriend or boyfriend, preferably a boyfriend.' She was using his pride to wrestle him into submission. She was humiliating him. That damn cat women, she knew him too well. Afraid that he might start having randoms show up at his place of residence, he finally surrendered, agreeing, resentfully so, that he'd go out with her and her friend one evening.

"Even if I tried," Byakuya said rather indifferently, "You'd find some way to bedevil me into it. I'd rather get this over with now."

With a roll of the eyes that sarcastically said 'now that's the sprit', Yoruichi teased, "I just wasn't sure if you had a date with your pocket watch that night."

Byakuya was a proud bird whose feathers were not so easily ruffled. Most of Yoruichi's comments rolled right of his shoulders and were met with an equally as biting comeback, but this was a subject that Yoruichi knew to be off limits. _'I will not instigate with her. That's what she wants, just like a child,'_ Byakuya calmed inwardly, never giving the woman attention with his eyes nor his voice.

"You know," her voice became noticeably more placating, "It's been three years. I think it's time for a _new_ pocket watch."

The euphemism was not lost on Byakuya. He knew how Yoruichi felt about the person in the picture framed by sterling silver. For a brief moment, he clenched his eyes, huffing inwardly in hopes to recollect himself. Finally, still looking over his lesson plan, he said flatly, "I'll see you tomorrow night, Professor."

After netting her brow at the man for a moment, Yoruichi let out a comical giggle and waved her hand breezily. "Satellite, eight o'clock sharp, Bya-boo."

Watching the woman leave, he let out a frustrated sigh. For reasons unbeknown to him, Byakuya suddenly felt an odd pull to read Kurosaki's paper once more.

 **xXx**

Renji was sitting on a stool situated in front of Ikkaku's drums, his arms lazily slung across the pieces of percussion. Such moves were ballsy, for he was risking his limbs if his fight-ready baldy of a friend saw him using his snare drum as a pillow and his Tom-Tom as an arm rest. At the farcical snickering of his lead singer, Renji gave an amused shake of the head and a gaping grin while thinking back to earlier.

In Professor Kuchiki's class, half of the students were nursing hangovers from last night's dollar draft Mondays, barely listening to the readings of Hamlet as they were lulled into sleep by Byakuya's rather soothing tonality.

The professor was reading a specific excerpt that Ichigo somehow found laugh out loud hilarious. Obviously, it had went over all the other students', Renji included, alcohol-soaked cerebrums.

The excerpt was:

 **HAMLET**

Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

 **OPHELIA**

No, my lord.

 **HAMLET**

I mean, my head upon your lap?

 **OPHELIA**

Ay, my lord.

 **HAMLET**

Do you think I meant country matters?

 **OPHELIA**

I think nothing, my lord.

 **HAMLET**

That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.

 **OPHELIA**

What is, my lord?

 **HAMLET**

Nothing.

Ichigo was sputtering, red faced, not able to hold in the hysterics or the water works cause by them. The professor gave him a pointed glare, obviously understanding what about the scene Ichigo found so absurd, but even more apparently, not finding it humorous himself.

The dour no-nonsense glare of his professor was only an impetus, for when he looked at the iceberg of a face, he gave a burst of rejuvenated laughter. Through his hiccups and snickers, he managed to sputter, "How can you sit there and take this so seriously? This is ridiculous!" Of course, since Hamlet had just seen the ghost of his murdered father and was a tad bit off his rocker, none of the students really understood the humor behind this moment. Some thought Kurosaki just might be a sick fuck with a twisted sense of humor.

Continuing, Ichigo chastised, "Shakespeare meant for this part to be funny, it's all… _Pfffsh…"_ through loud giggles, "It's all dirty jokes… Pfhh." At this point, his mound of orange tresses was buried deep within the lewd yet lyrically composed dialogue of one of the tragedian's finest works. It became clear that it wasn't that Ichigo had the drollery of a twelve year old boy that made this so gut wrenching, though that may very well be true also, but just how stately Byakuya could be while reciting such a ludicrous moment.

Giving an aslant glare to his friend, who was sitting on the piss yellow couch tuning his guitar, all the while just snickering to himself, Renji expressed, "I can't believe ya', you actually almost made Kuchiki express an emotion." Chuckling slightly, he went on with, "I still don't get what was so funny about the excerpt thought."

Because Ichigo was a literature major, he often understood the slang and puns within more arduous time-honored classics more so than many of the people he knew. It wasn't something he was smug about. He wasn't armed with a contemptuous 'Ummm…actually' on the tip of his tongue every time someone knew less than him. In fact, Ichigo rather enjoyed talking about literature and sharing his knowledge. Eagerly, he sat down his guitar and walked to the mini fridge, explaining himself on the way.

"When he says the line 'do you think I meant country matters', he's using a pretty clever pun. Just remove the last syllable from country and you'll see what'a mean. Ya' know, he's talkin' about a-um-a…um…"

In this manner, Ichigo truly was a twelve year old boy. Despite his sometimes crude humor, overall, anything too sexually lewd would send him into sputters. Sex Ed. classes had been the equivalent of a German torture dungeon to the young man. The word 'vagina' wasn't even in Ichigo's vernacular, let alone the word 'cunt.'

Renji, after mulling it over for a moment, finally got it and gave a throaty chortle. Seeing his friend still ambrosially trying to work his way around the word, almost as tensely and painstakingly as some hired thief limboing through an intricate web of sensory laser beams, he threw him a life line. "I get it. No need to hurt yourself there, buddy."

After narrowing his brows at the passive taunting, Ichigo explained further, "Yeah, and that last line where he said 'nothing', that's Elizabethan slang for…uh…um…well… a chick's private junk."

That awkwardness was horribly painful just listening to. Though Renji seemed to finally get why Ichigo found the whole thing laugh out loud comical, because he started bursting with laughter himself.

"It wasn't even that funny, but the professor's face when he talked about it…Pfhhhh," he once again chuckled at the memory. "Leave it to Kuchiki to be all stoic about dumb sex jokes and sword fighting. I don't think Shakespeare meant for people to take him so seriously, not to mention the guy was probably stoned out of his mind for most of his career."

Ichigo was referring to the rather new discovery of four-hundred year old clay tobacco pipes found in the Stratford-upon-Avon garden of William Shakespeare, quite a few laced with cannabis residue. Remember Shakespeare famous line 'To be or not to be'? Nah, it's more like, 'to smoke or not to smoke, that is the question'.

Quoting the author in a mocking tone, now back to his fiddling with his guitar, Ichigo said, "If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? If you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we smoke, do we not get high?"

Now banging sticks against Ikkaku's drums in a desultory and half ass manner, as if Renji actually knew how to play the drums, he chuckled at his friend. "I think you're taking some creative liberties on that last part, huh? Ya' know, if you want your crush to like you back, you might not want to antagonize him so much."

Giving a roll of the eyes, Ichigo reasoned, "I'm not going to change myself for nobody. If he doesn't like me, oh fucking well." Despite the unyielding glare of death that had been thrown towards Ichigo, the boy wasn't stupid nor blind. He saw a smirk threatening to paint the professor's face, only being held prisoner by his own arrogance. More so, he knew Byakuya to appreciate intelligence over anything, probably more than tact. He was the type of man who would have a bit of interest in the intellectual dynamics of someone like the Zodiac Killer, not because of his depraved and nefarious crimes, but because of how dexterously the killer got away with it by means of his own intelligence, all while taunting the police by sending in ciphered letters, dangling his crimes in front of them. Ichigo really liked that about the professor, he liked it a lot.

Despite what Byakuya said or how he treated him, he couldn't deny that he found Ichigo's intellectual intrepidness enjoyable, at least Ichigo liked to think so. Perhaps just as likely, his professor really did just find him to be an annoying brat. Ichigo was hoping it wasn't the latter.

Just then, Rukia walked through the door before plopping down on the couch in a clunky manner, all the while letting out nonsensical grouses that seemed to mimic a Velociraptor. The girl took no time in making herself at home, as she laid upside down on the couch, her head just barely situated on the cushions as her Converse-clad feet were up against the wall, the wobbly foundation crepitating in response. Not even addressing her boisterous entrance or her obviously irritated state, Rukia asked, "Whatcha' guys talking about?"

Smirking slightly, Renji responded, "Ah, we're just talking about how Ichigo likes to piss off Professor Kuchiki.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Rukia gave Ichigo an irritated glare, though he was none the wiser, for her topsy-turvy position was distorting her face like some kind of optical illusion. "You really shouldn't bother Professor Kuchiki," the girl chastised, sounding a tad more choleric that the situation deemed.

While traipsing around the room, sorta' thinking about if he wanted to get sushi for dinner, sorta' thinking about how shapely Byakuya's ass looked in his Neiman Marcus jeans that day in class, and how much better his ass would look not in anything, Ichigo gave the girl a noncommittal glance, not absorbing her words. One of his heads, he wasn't sure which one, was lost in the reverie of his own erotic fetishism. All of a sudden, he was thinking of doing unsavory things that involved teething sushi off of Byakuya's exposed back side. Sushi had never been an aphrodisiac for the man, but when paired with Byakuya's ruddy skin as an appetizer, he'd never think of the food the same way again. Now it would forever be known as California rolls-me-over _._ It wasn't clear if this would forever ruin the meal or make it all the more ambrosial and scrumptious.

' _I wonder if he'd let me do that t-'_

Luckily, before his newly obtained perverseness could ooze out of him in the form of saliva, Ichigo's thoughts were brought to a screeching halt at the feeling of Rukia's dainty hand smacking him upside the head. As he'd learned lately, since the girl took no issue with expressing her anger through physical abuse - meaning she was fitting in perfectly - Rukia's dainty figure was deceiving. There was Hulk Hogan strength behind those tiny fists.

"What the hell ya' did ya' do that for?!" Ichigo groused deafeningly, rubbing his now sore head. ' _You ruined my really lame really perverted fantasy that I was REALLY enjoying.'_

Standing with hand on hip like some angry rant-ready parent, Rukia chided, "Renji told me that you told Professor Kuchiki, 'I bet you laugh less than a mime'."

Narrowing his brow and casually shrugging his shoulders in a puzzled manner, Ichigo asked, "So?"

"You shouldn't taunt him so much. He's a really great professor," she chose her words wisely, biting back the natural inclination to say brother. "And he does a lot and works hard, he shouldn't have ta' put up with your rude mouth too."

' _Oh, come on, don't tell me that Rukia has a crush on the guy too. She didn't give me the helplessly pathetic vibe. Fuuuck.'_ Ichigo had always thought of himself as a bro's before ho's type guy, but Byakuya was not a ho. On the contrary, he was inaccessible and scarcely touched, at least in Ichigo's love-induced idolized image of him. He was like the Mona Lisa, so scantily befouled by human hands yet constantly marveled out from afar. Only in Ichigo's opinion, Byakuya's beauty was way more prolific and captivating, just not so world renowned. Still, the prospect at breaking up the band over love quarrels was grim at best, especially over a guy who was probably too high up on a throne to even notice them. Yet, if Fleetwood Mac could barely stay together over personal issues, what would make these neophyte rock star wannabes any better?

Rolling some tension from his shoulder and stretching an arm, he gave a breathy scoff. "Come on, Rukia, everyone bows down ta' that guy, he needs at least one person to balance out that damn ego of his." Before Rukia could say anything, he was off on another subject. Still rolling his shoulder, he grunted, "Man, I got a lot of built up tension from working at the shop all week. I think I'm going to go do some Krav with Tatsuki at the dojo tonight." Turning his head towards Renji, he asked, "Ya' wanna' tag along?"

Enthusiastically, Renji jumped up and said, "I'd never miss the opportunity to _finally_ kick Tatsuki's ass."

Smirking, Ichigo jested, "Ya' mean get your ass handed to you again."

"Yeah, yeah," he popped opened the top to his Peach Minute Maid as he reclaimed his seat. "Semantics. Either way, I'm down."

"I'm in too!" Rukia added.

Giving a look of disapproval, Renji said, "No way, I'm not going to hit a girl." Sure, technically Tatsuki was a girl, but in Ichigo and Renji's somewhat sexist eyes, she was like a little brother that they'd thrown down with just about every day of their middle school pupilage. They were all veterans of the principal's office. Renji and Ichigo would just sit there brooding, looking like two giant scabs while Tatsuki looked unscathed, as if she'd just watched idly from the sidelines.

"Oh, come on," Rukia boomed indigently, "Because I have ovaries you think I'm not worth fighting? That's some backwards bullshit, ya' know."

Just trying to poke the bear like the instigating little troll doll he was, Ichigo taunted, "Geez, all that anger in such a tiny person." Cocking an eyebrow at his red headed bandmate, "Maybe we should _let_ her come, huh?"

"LET ME?!" Rukia about burst, prompting Ichigo to take a few hefty steps back, not wanting to be in the direct line of fire if the girl started hurling things.

Renji, who was now chewing on a piece of twenty five cent Dubble Bubble gum that no one buys anymore, smirked in-between smacks, adding fuel to the fire. "I guess she is pretty feisty."

If you're going to be one of the bros, you have to take shit like one of the bros. Bro code rule number two hundred and sixteen.

"Plenty feisty enough to kick your ass. You're just scared that a girl's a better musician _and_ a better fighter than you. It'll hurt your fragile male ego too much."

"Yeah, yeah," Ichigo mocked jokingly, still just trying to egg the girl on, "We get it, you're a feminist. Go listen to some Melissa Etheridge and calm down. "

"THAT'S IT." The girl held out her hand, and in a noticeably more pleased voice demanded, "Renji, saber me."

Cocking an eyebrow at the girl curiously, Ichigo said, "Are you challenging me, Rukia? Now that I won't back away from."

Renji laid the polymer constructed children's toy in the girl's hand, saying, "May the force be with you," throwing one towards Ichigo in suit.

Pressing the button and releasing the neon colored saber, Rukia drew it back in an act of theatrical swordsmanship to where they were both wielding their weapons in true Jedi fashion. "Prepare to lose your ego, Kurosaki Ichigo," she added on before lunging, "and possibly your limbs."

No sooner than Ichigo rolled his eyes at the girl's melodramatics, his sword was parried as the girl counter-parried, the force and agility of the girl's advance sending him stumbling right over a stake of old records and a tangled mess of aux. cords. She was killing two birds with one saber, keeping his ego in check while equally teaching him a lesson about the importance of tidiness.

Bunglingly moving to his feet, through gritted teeth he denounced, "What was that? That's is not how Jedis fight."

Reveling in her victory, she bit her lip smugly, taking great pleasure in flexing her skills. "That was years of fencing with my brother, and they're called light _sabers,_ which is a type of sword in fencing, also the sword I specialized in."

"You're like some kind of spider monkey, so fast, damn," Renji noted somewhere in-between humor and well deserved intimidation.

Shrugging in her normal unfazed manner, Rukia explained, "Sabers are known for their speed, my size made footwork a breeze. My brother always preferred foil fencing, it focuses more on precision."

Not the type to lick his wounds or his marred pride, Ichigo jumped from his spot in a rollicking fashion, declaring, "You're definitely going with us now. I need a chance to redeem myself. "With a lopsided smirk, he checked the time on his phone before fretting, "We're not going anywhere if we don't get started on the rest of this song, Renji. We have a show tomorrow night at eight and we still have a whole outro to finish and learn."

Renji, being that he was always positive to a T, almost naively so, lightheartedly shoved Ichigo in the shoulder and beamed, "No worries, we got this, bro. We'll be performing this shit on stage with no hang ups at all."

After throwing out an avid, "My music ain't shit," the two fell into a perfect harmony of creative symbiosis, almost erringly so. The two had been writing and playing for so long that the act became as natural as breathing. It wasn't long before they were finishing each other's sentences or refining the other's ideas as if they were sharing in some kind of secret musical telekinesis, able to finish melodies and perfect lines with a flick of the eye. To any bystanders, the men looked like two children who'd created their own exclusive jargon, for never was a full thought expressed before it was cut off by a 'I like that' or a 'totally, yeah man, let's do it.'

Truly, it was a testament of the musical aptness behind these two men. Both were the lyricists of the band, though Ichigo came up with the bulk of the material. However, both equally worked on the instrumentals of their songs. Never was there a better song writing duo since the great John Lennon and Paul McCartney, or at least these vainglorious novices liked to claim so.

Renji was pretty much a master of all string-related instruments: Guitar, banjo, mandolin, cello, he even dabbled in the violin. Of course, his infantile band members made the obligatory crude zingers about how an instrument was the only thing that would ever let him finger it.

If Renji was the T-bone steak of musicians, Ichigo would be considered the Fullblood Wagyu Tenderloin, for the brat was a certified genius. Either his corpus callosum had more intricately interweaving nerve fibers and his left and right hemispheres were perfectly synchronized, he was enthroned by the Greek God of music Apollo himself, or was the reincarnation of the illustrious Grateful Dead's Jerry Garcia - it was unclear, but the man's mind seemed to be hand crafted for concocting music. He could dabble with an instrument he'd never touched, and from just the power of his meticulously well-tuned ear, could recognize notes and mimic melodies, basically allowing him a base level proficiency at just about any instrument he picked up. Uryu often liked to mock the man and call him their idiot savant, for he could barely grasp the simplicities of the quadratic formula but his ear was at super human levels. Like the musically predisposed superhero he was, spandex not included, he lead this ragtag posse of instrument-wielding bohemians and shaped them into something that resembled a band, complete with a seven track EP, sixhundredandseventytwo followers on SoundCloud, and gigs that they were even sometimes payed for.

It was a work in progress. It would be a while, if ever, that they were selling out shows at the House of Blues, as of present time, they were more college parties and back ally bar performers, almost willing to pay people to let them play. Still, it was a labor they enjoyed, because to them, it really was just about the music and being able to create it together. This experiment of theirs was a meteoric type of magic, a transient brilliance that would go by in a blink of the eye.

"We'll do all the tracks on the EP plus a few covers, then we'll probably end with our new song," Ichigo stated while his eyes asked his second in command for affirmation that this was an okay line up. Renji really was the Bob Weir to his Jimmy Garcia, but also like Weir, Renji was egoless and comfortable with his position as second best. While he did always strive to be better and often used his lead singer as a mark of comparison, a rival even, it was always without spite or envy. Though, this could also be a testimony to how humble Ichigo could be about his talent and position as the lead. He surely knew how talented he was, but it was never something that made him feel entitled or superior.

"I think we should end on this song," he suggested, pointing to the list.

Shaking his head, Ichigo agreed, "Yeah, you're right."

Throwing the man a slight smirk, Renji noted, "Ikkaku ain't goin' to be happy about this down-tempo drum line we got goin' for this new song. I'm totally down with the hip-hoppy drum breakdown and the bluesy sound, but, well, you know Ikkaku."

Giving something between a smirk and a huff, Ichigo countered, "Not every song can have a Led Zeppelin drum line." Picking up the drum sticks and quickly mimicking the rhythmic patter, he added, "Besides, it's slow, but it's really intricate. I'm challenging him," Ichigo offered smugly, "he'll appreciate it."

Adjusting his head-band slightly, Renji jested, "Heh', the real challenge will be seeing if he can contain all that maniacal energy for something this slow-paced for a whole four minutes."

"More than that," Ichigo emitted, "we're doing a few down-tempo songs, like that Dave Matthews cover. Eh, he'll probably dig that one though, with the track I'm looping in."

Obviously confused, Renji asked, "Track? What?"

The glazed over look on Renji's face yielded a large scowl from Ichigo. Shaking his head, he chided loudly, "If you two morons listened half as much as ya' drink, I wouldn't have to repeat myself." After a few more snarls and half-hearted insults, he explained, "I hired a DJ to make an electronic track for the cover. Uryu and I thought it be a cool contrast of sounds."

The newly obtained information seemed to do nothing for Renji's confusion, as he blurted rather boorishly, "DJ? What DJ?!"

"Uhhh," Ichigo faltered, feeling railroaded by his friend's sudden scene of urgency. "Yumichika. I don't think you've met him," he stated dubiously.

"What?! You know Yumichika? Does Ikkaku know? Is he coming to the show?" Renji beleaguered Ichigo with a game of twenty questions.

Immediately, Renji's cheeks were painted with a red chroma as he noticed Ichigo's confused glare. With such a grandiose reaction, you'd think Ichigo said he'd collaborated with prolific DJs like Deadmau5 or Nervo. Not to mention, Renji's poker face was virtually nonexistent. One didn't need a lie detector or an expertise in interpreting micro-expressions to know when Renji was fibbing. It just took one look at his dopey gawky open-book of a face to see he practically had 'I'm lying to you' in big bold font engraved on his forehead.

However, if ever there was a time to magically summon the gift of the bluff, now was that moment. For if he told Ichigo about the two's self-enlightening sojourn within the realm of gay, Ikkaku would have his hide. The threats he'd bestowed upon Renji would make the devil himself shudder. It involved a parlous combination of torturous terrorist investigation tactics and Ikkaku's special brand of maniacal justice. Forget snitches get stitches, more like, snitches get a full body cast. Moreover, if he did, his own transgressions from that night would come out, despite the fact that, in Renji's self-deluded lamebrain, absolutely _nothing_ happened, and despite the fact his thoughts had been overran by one very specific cheeky liquor handler of a man, it _obviously_ meant nothing. In his psychology classes, he'd learned about positive and negative reinforcements and how they were best used in conjunction. This was a real world application, for nothing motivated better than a mixture of fear(negative) and being able to hold onto his denial(positive).

It wasn't in Ikkaku's nature to feel the need to keep secrets. He was a brutally honest unapologetic kind of guy who didn't feel the need to justify anything. First and foremost, though he may have the specious air of a cat-calling, bigoted gym rat, complete with the inferiority complex, Ikkaku exceeded the mold. He was rather aloof about dating or affairs of the heart in general, enough to make Renji gander about the probability that Ikkaku was just not the type of man who was capable of romantic love. So it was anyone's guess what Ikkaku's type was or if he liked guys or girls, in fact, it was just as much of a surprise to the usually love-deficient man. Basically, Ikkaku's sexuality was like opening a present that you didn't know you were receiving, no matter what the outcome, you're pretty much just glad you're getting it.

Furthermore, no one in the band cared if he liked guys or if he was bi, it was pretty much irrelevant. Especially with a lead singer who was becoming progressively more love sick every day from his very handsome, very _male_ , professor. More so, Ikkaku himself couldn't care less about what you like to put in your mouth for fun, as long as he didn't have to hear about it, but that went for both hereto and homoerotic relations. He didn't have some weak outdated notion of machismo that could crumble at the reality of finding another man attractive, as if thinking Yumichika was beautiful somehow drained him of his testosterone. No, his identity wasn't so frail that it would unhinge at a kink in his sexuality, unlike one of his red-headed bandmates that will remain nameless. So it wasn't quite transparent to why Ikkaku felt the need to give Renji mafia-style threats to keep his mouth shut.

However, Renji knew how all of the guys in the band could be, himself included. Ichigo especially would eat up Ikkaku's new infatuation, especially since Ichigo had been shoveling shit about Byakuya for months now. This would be like Christmas, New Year's, Jack White's birthday, and tax return season in the jackpot of all confessions. Who could blame Ikkaku for needing time to figure things out for himself before he had to listen to everyone else's opinions on it?

Ichigo was starting to feel a tinge of concern for his friend's off behavior today. For instance, what happened to that spineless puddle of sputters and blushed cheeks that Renji would metamorphose into around anyone he found attractive? Overall, Rukia's presence seemed to induce little to no awkwardness, well, no more than anyone else's would, for Renji's overall charisma lent itself to being awkwardly eccentric. Still, it didn't change the fact that Renji's usual setting was bumbling newb until the attraction-causing norepinephrine, attachment-causing oxytocin, and lust-causing testosterone calmed down their romp and could form a semblance of homeostasis around their new provoker.

Nonetheless, Ichigo answered the questions rather casually. "Nah, I don't see why he would. We're not friends or anything, Uryu and I just hired him." Rolling his eyes slightly, he continued, "And as for Ikkaku, he would if you two ever listened."

In the two's defense, it was kind of Ichigo's fault for telling them as the pair were trying to gormandize the whole new season of 'House of Cards' in one valiant go, consummated with a stockpile of preservative-filled snacks and a month's worth of Yingling. It was truly Ichigo's blunder for not realizing that Kevin Spacey always took priority.

Erecting an eyebrow at his friend, who had simply pursed his lips, popped open a beer, and sat on the couch in a clumsy attempt of playing it cool, Ichigo asked somewhere between seriousness and kidding, "What, ya' got a crush on him or something?"

Renji's body could keep a secret about as well as a kid who had just learned Santa Claus wasn't real and was told to keep it from their peers. His thoughts might as well have been tattooed on his skin with the way his body psychosomatically lit up. "God no! _I_ don't, I- I mean- I don't even like guys, you know that."

With his face stuck somewhere between amused and bemused, Ichigo took no time in pointing out, "But what about our junior year? Ya' know, that time with Hisagi at that Gallagher kid's pa-"

"I was wasted!" Renji justified earnestly, "and it was a dare!"

Ichigo merely pursed his lips and let out an unconvinced hum. _'You can blame the kiss on the dare, but the way you were groping that guy's butt was all on you, buddy.'_ Renji had no interest in guys the same way Ichigo had no interest in guys, in the same way the earth wasn't round, or in the same way Jupiter wasn't the biggest planet in our solar system. Still Ichigo let it slide. He knew surmounting your own sexuality was no easy task, and his usual shit talk would probably only push Renji so deep in the closet that he was finding forgotten family picture albums.

"What about you?" Renji attempted to ask offhandedly. "What do you think of em'?"

For a brief moment, Ichigo lifted his contemplative gaze off into the smoke-filled ambiance. Misunderstanding exactly what Renji was asking, he shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly and said, "He's pretty good to look at, I guess."

With a twisted glare and an equally as disturbed huff, Renji said, "That's not what I mean! Get your mind out of the gutter."

' _What are with these weird reaction today?'_ Ichigo wondered inwardly.

" _Me?_ You asked a question and I answered honestly. You have no room to talk when you go off on a fucking tangent every time you see a girl with a nice, erm…a nice-" Losing some of his heat, he gestured over his chest to signify exactly what part of the female anatomy he was alluding to.

Amused, Rukia, who had been just barely listening while trying to concentrate on her homework, chimed in. "Boobs, Ichigo, they're called boobs."

"Ah, Shut it. It's not like I have any, so why do I got to say it?"

Unfazed, Rukia quipped, "I don't have testicles either, but I can still manage to say the word, you child."

Cutting back in, Renji explained, "I mean, what do ya' think of him as a person? I met him recently and he left a real bad taste in my mouth." At Ichigo cocking a suggestive eyebrow at Renji's poor choice of words, he steamed, "Oh come on, ya' know what I mean, he had a real nasty personality."

"Ah," Ichigo said, now back to eyeing a piece of sheet music. "Like I said, I don't really know anything about him. I've always kind of known of him, but we were never close. I just figured you were asking me if I liked him, since he's gay too."

"And how do ya' know that?" Renji pried.

Ichigo threw Renji a glare that screamed 'really, you really have to ask?' He might as well have asked how Ichigo knew the sky was blue or how he knew Byakuya Kuchiki was one fine hunk of man; he'd simply utilized his eyesight. Not to mention, despite how he liked to stay out of that crowd, the gay family was like a world of its own, a totally different culture complete with its own language, standards, and even its own communication system. The grapevine was more byzantine and ran deeper than the Underground Railroad, though it definitely wasn't as hush hush, there was always gossiping mummers flying around, even if you didn't want to hear them. Understanding Renji to be a visual learner, Ichigo asked, "Let's take a brief moment of silence to envision Yumichika dating a girl."

It took no longer than a few seconds for Renji to froth with laughter. "Oh, wow, I get what you're saying. I don't even know him all too well, but that doesn't seem to fit."

While waiting for Ikkaku and Uryu to finally show up, Renji mulled over the likelihood of hiding Yumichika's involvement with the band. Not that it would really change things one way or another, since Yumichika wasn't going to come to the show, but still, Renji was weary. Truly, the man had felt like a teary-eyed parent overflowing with pride that his friend had found someone who could catch his interest, make him happy. Now he was more like the overprotective parent who didn't think anyone was good enough for his boy- at least not this guy. He was the definition of the 'don't bring home to mom and pop' type, the careless attitude and drug issues included. More so, he took no issue in letting his friend know this. Still, in the end, Ikkaku would do whatever he wanted to do, and deterring it would just bring out his rebellious 'no one tells Ikkaku what to do' predilection. Although, he couldn't help but feel concerned. He knew when Ikkaku got something in his head, he wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted, for he was more stubborn and stuck in his ways than an old senile man. It was that stubbornness that could be his comeuppance. Now that he thought he saw something veiled by Yumichika's sour attitude, if only out of his own foolish pride, he wouldn't stop until he drew that part out. For the sake of his friend, Renji was hoping he knew what he was doing.

"What bar is our show at?" Renji inquired. "I forgot."

"Satellite," Ichigo responded.

"Huh, I like that place a lot. It has a slightly older crowd than we're used to performing for. This should be different."

 **xXx**

 **Setsu23: I'd just like to say, you're review made me so happy. I take my writing really seriously, even if it's just fan fiction, I don't want to half ass it. Sometimes it get's discouraging that I don't get all to much support for my stories, so your review was prefect motivation. I hope you enjoy the direction I'm taking the story and keep on reviewing. I'd love to hear of what you think of Byakuya's character.**

 **Guest: Ah :) Thank you. Sometimes, when I'm reading a story, the writing style can just put me to sleep. When I was writing this, I really wanted something that could get**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys! Here's my latest chapter. Theres not all to much to say except that it has mentions of hardcore drug use. (DISCLAIMER)**

 **I'm not one of those assholes who threatens to stop writing if people don't review, if only for the fact that I take my writing seriously, fan fiction or not. However, I do quite literally put my blood, sweat, and tears into this story, not to mention my sanity, since my ADHD riddled brain has the attention span of a gold fish. So please, if you like the story or even hate it, take just five minuets to give me some feedback. HOURS upon hours go into these chapters for you guys. Not to mention, if theres something you think I should change or something you like and want to see more of, I take suggestions into consideration.**

 **Good vibes!**

 **xXx**

" _All I want is to want nothing,"_ \- TFB "Tattoo Tears"

 **xXx**

 **Setting Fires for Fun.**

Fluttering eyelids and rapidly dilating pupils signified that the internal alarm clock within Yumichika had sounded. Limpid sunlight was shining through the cerulean silkworm-spun textiles and onto the pearly and desultory extremities of the beauty. A back up alarm, the darkly cinematic trip hop melodies of Massive Attack's 'Teardrop' sounded from the nightstand, albeit unnecessarily, as usual. Years of precisely crafted scheduling was what kept this song and dance of an existence tightly spinning within Yumi's grasp, and he always exhibited expeditious footwork between the transitions from scene to scene. Yes, he'd perfected going through the motions. Now it was time to exit stage left.

In a manner like someone who moved for the sole purpose of movement, with no motivation or aspiration behind the exerted energy, Yumichika positioned himself to the side of the bed. Blank face, his eyes glissaded across the meticulously cared for dressing room as he thought of the errands he'd need to accomplish today. Luckily, today's dance was a smooth two step, for he'd paid all of the bills over the weekend, made sure his mother was lucid enough to eat something, did most of the menial household duties, and tended to his now nascent rainbow chard, strawberries, cilantro, rhubarb and other greenery he'd planted at April's onset.

A goulash of aromatic burnt jasmine and cleaning bleach filled the sardine can of a domicile. Yumichika's nearly faultless skin bore slight off colored splotches from where the solution had splashed onto his wrist, corroding the ivory melanin pigment. After all, the man kept quite the clean house, for that's how Yumichika needed and preferred things to be: clean, organized, and pure, though sometimes it did seem like such a feckless and vacuous labor. It could be compared to keeping the heat running at a chicken farm, all that energy spent on the dead in delay, for as soon as the steel cages were sealed, so were their destinies. Why patronize them with such fraudulent luxuries as heat? The processed meat-to-be were now just poltergeists, mingling between life and death, there but not really, just waiting for a kind soul to sympathetically gut them from their now meaningless existence.

To Yumichika, he was just another one of the dead in delay.

Still he cleaned like some kind of OCD driven head-case, obsessing over the tiniest of unidentified specks. It was as if he thought he could scrub away the depraved and noxious memorization brought about every time he took a step through the threshold, as if he could soak his own soul and cognizance in the bleach and rid them of the jaundicing calamities of his pupillage. Alas, he could send this whole place up in beautifully destructive flames and it would never be clean enough to free him from these shackling memories.

Perhaps his obsession with cleanliness was what caused his affinity for cocaine, for it wasn't nicknamed the caviar of street drugs without cause. When the stimulant would break the brain blood barrier and his pupils would dilate into two encompassing saucers, when the reward pathway was activated and his temporal lobe became varnished with the dust, it felt like pure control. He could practically feel the hydrochloride alleviating and purging as its enslaving properties coursed through his veins. In those moments, he felt freed from the vice grip of his habituated performance. He felt so present, able to revel in emotions without the constricting pretenses of his daunting permanence. He didn't feel high at all, in fact, he felt more sober than he ever had. He felt alive.

Time spent with his music was the only time he'd allow such acknowledgment of his inner terrors. Letting them flow out into a creative outlet, giving them breath, it somehow made everything okay in those moments.

Yumichika stretched out the creaks and kinks in his nagging limbs before he ambled over to his well-stocked wardrobe and chose his daily costume. Fixing his hair, plucking a few stray eyebrows, and moisturizing his face - it was all stage make up. The whole routine was rather trite to him, as long as it was convincing to the masses, allowing him to intermingle without people calling into question the validity of his masquerade, it didn't matter. If it was up to him, he'd rather wear a tattered potato sack, hiding away his very last virtue until no one saw him. It would be just the slightest nuance of his current circumstances. Perhaps then he could cease to exist, vanish into an afterthought, and blow away with the wind. Certainly the ugly people of the world were the invisible dirty little secrets, marked with a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy. Unattractive people were comparable to the mentally challenged child that a well-to-do political family hid away like a dusty skeleton in the back of their closet. Everyone knows, but no one says anything, as if they could ignore their shame out of existence. How Yumichika yearned for such a graciousness, to be ugly and deemed invisible or useless. Even so, his beauty was his greatest bartering chip, a currency, even a possible means of escape. Still it wasn't as if the man never flirted with the idea of turning off the spot lights, burning his costumes, and retiring from the stage for once and for all.

What would happen if he stopped dancing? What would become of the show with no performer? The backdrop would crumble and the spectacle would cease to exist, more so, the performer would disappear as well. The whole stagnant existence would spin out of control for one last climactic and tragic final act, silently and without a single pair of eyes to watch or care. Like a star that scorched brightly for just a blink in time, and inevitably fell victim to the death of carbon fusion, he'd combust, shining at his brightest before his existence was merely the reminisces of energy. However, unlike a star, the effects of his oxidization would be viewed by no one.

Yumichika was a singular celestial body floating amongst the void with no gravity to attach him to anything. It was truly only his innate human resilience to survive that kept these limbs ambulatory.

It wasn't that Yumichika wanted to die, or more so, he hadn't enough gull, or perhaps too much pride - possibly a mixture of both - to lay down his sword and put to rest his weary inconsequential body. Still, that didn't keep him for wishing and waiting that one day the consequences of the life he lived would catch up to him. A bump too many, a thrill too hazardous, a man too heinous, how many times did he have to pull the trigger before the revolver got to the loaded chamber? How long would he play musical chairs with assisted suicide? Would someone free him from the penitentiary that were the cracks in his pneuma before his only desirability, beauty, faded, and would leave the blood for him alone to spill?

Impassively looking up at the clock, Yumichika's eyes gaped slightly. _'He'll be home before long. I need to hurry.'_

After he finished his daily rituals, Yumichika grabbed his bag and headed down the hallway leading from his bedroom to the living area. The walls were wobbly outdated ply-wood with cracks and chips from wear and neglect; they seemed to reflect the souls who dwelled within their confines. Yumichika's mother used to say the cracks gave the walls character - it was a nice way of phrasing how poor they were. He wondered, if she was still in her right mind to have much of an opinion, would she say the same thing about the cracks in themselves, that they gave them character?

On the wall was a singular picture in which Yumichika would often look at before he left, almost as if it was a part of his ritual. Try as he might, he didn't recall who the smiley faces of the individuals depicted really were. He knew the faces, but not the actual people behind them. He couldn't help but wonder if he had dreamt them up long ago, possibly his savaged psyche's pathetically desperate attempt to make sense of the tragedy, false memories acting as cheap adhesive to hold him together like some grade school arts and craft project.

In the picture was a stunning women with hair as black as the abyss of space, young and radiant in her green dress. Next to her, with his arm perched around her neck as if holding something precious, was a lanky man with pale skin, angular features, and heavy eyelids. The women was using one hand to taunt his unkempt patches of beard that the man refused to shave, leaving his face looking like a defective chia pet. The man was sticking his tongue out at the women, neither giving much thought to the camera in front of them. Lastly, on their laps was a child with a sucker in his mouth. His features seemed to be the optimal mosaic of their commingled DNA. The beautiful bundle of joy was their chromatic masterpiece through and through. He was molded and nurtured, he thrived and grew into the jaunty mixture of cells, quirks, and sticky fingers. These people were happy and carefree. The artist were happy with their constantly growing creation. It was a snapshot of authentic blitheness, however so volatile, it was still real.

Yumichika had searched for the same snapshots of joyous peace and only grew deeper in his conviction that it was truly people's most disingenuous sides that were the snapshots. By nature, humans were survivors, animals, only differentiated by thumbs and complex thoughts. All of the traits that distinguished humans, like morals, compassion, and empathy, those were relative from time period and culture, something taught but not innate. Moreover, it's easy to hold onto those virtues when things were going well, when you're happy. However, the moment those surface traits get in the way of surviving or advancing, the darker side of the human condition rears it's ugly, manipulative self-serving head. Yumichika knew the truth, that inside of every single human soul was a tiny Jack the Ripper or Stalin waiting to take the forefront, just waiting for a sticky enough situation to transpire, and for those natural animalistic instincts to kick in. Some were just more patient than others. It was when people let go of their socially constructed concepts of right and wrong, and did the unthinkable, that they had to face their true colors, and sometimes the reality of how inhuman they could be- no, how inhuman they _were_ \- was to mortifying to take in. Their complex network of morals gained through their whole consciousness of being molded by their regions social norms would conflict with the essence of what it truly meant to be alive. In those all-revealing moments of visceral action, when it actually mattered, none of those mores meant anything. It was then that these fragile interweavings of atoms made a decision, to either run away and hide from the monster within, or more frighteningly, realize that they enjoyed the adrenaline of being their most bare-boned selves, and engulf themselves within the comforting embrace of darkness.

One way or another, humans were faulty, their whole natures contradicted themselves. They were like failed automobiles and evolution was the constantly frustrated engineers; only years of natural selection could fix the glitches and wire shortages. Yet, as stepping stones in adaptation, they're constantly ruining lives with their factory defaults. It was only a matter of time before the world recalled them. Though it was in their natures to reach for their apex, to interact and move through this world with set values and assimilate to the environment around them, the light of truth showed a much bleaker picture. Humans were murders, thieves, cheats, manipulators, rapists, and liars, and despite who you are or how righteous you believed yourself to be, eventually everyone falls to one of these human imperfections. To make matters even more dismal, it was theirs morals that damned them, for humans were _supposed_ to know better, they were _supposed_ to rise above the primitiveness of such basic animalistic transgressions, for no one blamed a bear that killed a rabbit for food, because bears don't know anything about morals when it comes to survival, but a human does, or at least they're supposed to.

Still, in the end, even the humans who ran away from the darkness within, who've fought against it and sworn to never again fall victim to their own depravity still had no solace, for even those people, could they really say their values and self-proclaimed heroism was based in a need to help others, or was it just a desperate attempt to be a good person, a person worth looking at in the mirror? No matter what it was, everything a person did could come back to their own selfishness one way or another. It was just how much that selfishness helped others that determined the purity of a person's disposition. Those snapshots of joy were just short commercial breaks- filled with smoke and mirrors, spurious smiles that sold the notion of the loving humans - in-between a much more grimly convoluted story.

Despite his more nihilistic way of viewing the world, Yumichika could at least recognize that the people who fought against their natural inclination to do wicked things were the closest to 'good people' that could be found within these clothed barbarians. These were rare finds, needles in this burning tumult of a haystack. More so, even though while in pitch darkness a pin hole of light can blind, the world was painted in splotches of gray. Most impersonated as what they wanted people to see, wolves in human clothing, and they did so expertly. For that reason, trusting anyone was an easy way to become a morsel for a carnivorous wolf.

Yumichika's childhood wasn't what one would call conventional. His mother was a second generation American birthed in the sixties. She spent the more venturesome days of her adolescence listening to Janis Joplin while marooning her bra and razors, and smoking grass with other smelly bohemians in the thickets of week-long musical bonanzas. Somewhere along her yarn of trippy haphazard adventures, she met and fell in love with a failed, yet optimistic, scientist. His work was just before its time, for he was delving into research on quantum physics that the world wasn't quite ready for, and like Tesla, was deemed crazy only to later have his research picked apart by vultures and claimed as their own. He worked as a salary slave, a chemistry teacher, and she sold hand-crafted soaps and taught guitar lessons from their dingy little trailer. They were poor, but happily so.

Slightly out of tune guitar strings and the constant spill of horrible dad jokes formed the requiem of Yumichika's youth, and what a beautiful song it was. While other kids went to soccer practice and ate pizza rolls, Yumi helped make stained glass art and ate mostly homegrown vegan cuisine. While his classmates would talk about their favorite cartoons, Yumichika would just listen with an otiose tongue, for his mother thought cable television was the heart of the devil itself, and instead read to him novels from a variety of great minds. To say he danced to the beat of his own drum was an understatement, for he had his own personal marching band. Though it was a peculiar childhood, and Yumichika could often be ostracized for his offbeat uprising, his mother reassured him that she wasn't raising him to think like everyone else, but to make his own way in life.

He didn't realize just how seriously she took this self-imposed matriarchal aim, because she checked out - in every way that mattered - before she even finished her obligatory eighteen years. As if to test his individuality and strength of will, a lad whom was merely fourteen years young, she abandoned him, jumped ship, if you will. Looking back now, it was probably a smart move on her part. This world was a savage and unforgiving place, a ship constantly taking on water. Still, no amount of glass-making or bombastic passages from old dead white guys could have prepared Yumichika for a junkie mother and the unthinkable horrors that occurred as a result. After a while, Yumichika had given up hope any natural maternal instinct would rev up and overthrow the woman's survival instincts. For a while, he almost thought that one day he'd walk into the kitchen to hear the scratchy vinyl of 'Me and Bobby Mcgee' playing, and smell the earthiness of homemade granola bars, only for her to stand there all wide eyed and sober, telling him he'd passed his mandatory test of self-resilience.

Strange thing about dads who die, they leave behind a lot more than ungraded chemistry papers and vacant silences that use to be filled with bad quips. In particular, his dad left behind his last and possibly greatest failed experiment: his family. Yumichika was sure he was devastated, but with all of the new duties that came along with being the new head of the household, he didn't have much time to focus on something as bathetic as bereavement.

If he had to compare his mother to an animal, it would be a polar bear. By nature, they don't eat their young, but with the growing effects of global warming and a food shortage on the rise, they did what they had to do. After his father died, she made a valiant attempt at the single mother life for about a month, but that was a long stretch when she'd been too drunk to realize she would hold her old books upside down while attempting to read or to tell the difference between their coffee grains and their compost. Some say there are stages to grief, but Yumi was sure his mom sat her ass down right in the middle of denial, and like the temperamental dependent toddler she was, refused to budge. Surely her constant oblivion made it impossible for her to cope with the reality of her situation.

After a couple of months of constant drinking and bar hopping, Yumichika's dad was substituted by some touchy sack of human waste, Gerald, a walking drug dispenser that not only reinforced his mother's substance abuse, but intensified it. The loveless utilitarian relationship was perfectly symbiotic. Yumi's once bright eyed mother was in a veritable coma while that toxic beast of a man claimed all of her resources, _all_ of them, especially the hefty life insurance Yumichika's father had left behind. Gerald was a smart slime ball, a grade-A manipulator. If Yumichika's was more like his old mother and used bullshit optimism to sugarcoat things, he'd call him an entrepreneur, but in reality, he was just a plain old drug dealer, not to mention a gambler with a penchant for losing who also dabbled in human trafficking. Still, he followed the golden rule of dealing: never get high on your own supply. Instead, he kept Yumi's mother doped up while always knowing just the right amount to keep her alive, keep her blissfully stuck in-between realities. He was a business man after all; he wouldn't harm his biggest source of revenue. What his product used to be, Yumichika's wouldn't even let himself think back on it; let's just say, the older Yumichika got, the less often he'd find himself in Gerald's playground. It hadn't been his home for some time now.

His own personal hell was a place on earth, and it looked a lot like dust-burnished Joplin records and plywood walls.

Dead eyed, he glared at the picture before walking down the hall. Luckily, Gerald had received a crippling injury from a loan shark two years and some change ago, about the time Yumichika had turned seventeen. He remembered because he considered it the first birthday present he received in years. Not only could the man barely walk, but most of his regulars that solicited his more unsavory services had stopped coming around. For that reason, things had gotten better- if there was such a thing. As if the universe believed that Yumichika had atoned enough, it allowed him relocation in a milder stratum of hell. Now instead of an eternity of having his organs picked over by some ghoulish demon-vulture hybrid, he was bestowed with the blessing of sitting within the flames for the rest of time. He was sure he deserved it, if only for just being something as grimy as a human. Either way, the reign of Gerald had ended, well, sorta. He still sat on the throne, but was too crippled to enact his arbitrarily cruel regime. He still lived there, still sold drugs, still kept his mom doped up, and mostly, he still kept Yumichika cornered with threats, making the process of kicking him out near to impossible. Not that he had indulged such a fantasy in a long time.

No, he had become complacent in his torture. Now he never saw the man at all, synching up their schedules so he could avoid him. Funnily enough, even monsters were creatures of habit. This way, he could dodge dealing with his presence, he could dodge dealing with his past. Like mother, like son, he supposed.

As soon as he passed through the archway that separated the kitchen and living room, Yumichika could sense something was awry. Years of active survival tactics had honed his primordial gut instinct that was deeply hardwired in the essence of all homo sapiens. Like a muscle, the more you exercised your instinct, the more such actions became almost involuntary, ingraining themselves in your memory. Since this instinct was developed as if he'd been training for the apocalypse his whole life, his 'shit's about to go down' meter was as in tune as a flock of birds during the inception of a natural disaster. It came in handy, having a third eye with twenty-twenty vision.

Immediately, he moved across the room without thought, and took a closer look at the bundle of track mark covered skeletal limbs folded malleably under a thick blanket like a piece of tattered origami. Her sunken face was hidden under the wool, only revealing strands of raven-hued frayed protein filament that sprouted from her follicles, parched and lifeless from neglect. In a cursory manner, he drew the blanket off of her and threw it to the side, netting his eyebrows at the woman.

The wasted facial features looked as if they were painted by death's own personal make up designer, the shades of blues and purples were all the rage amongst the corpselike. Pitifully, her cracked lips, blue enough to give the impression she'd trudged through a snow storm, grappled and contorted in an attempt to speak, though even if she could, Yumichika was sure it be all nonsensical syllables exerted for the sole purpose of knowing that she still could, that if words formed in her vocal chords, it'd be enough to know was still alive. Her eyes were wide open but obviously took nothing in; the dilated pupils were glazed and stared off into a void. The lift and fall of her chest was erratic yet shallow while her throat began to froth with muffled gargling. That sound was like the grim reaper's theme music. In the same way eerie melodies would signal the approaching danger in horror movies, this sound acted as a cue for the reaper to enter the spotlight.

Yumichika popped her face a couple of times. "Midori," he repeated twice.

Nothing.

Resigned, he stood back and rolled his eyes, annoyed by this pit stop in his routine. The jam-packed schedule of a performer had little patience for mother's undergoing heroin overdoses. He turned quickly, retreating back to the kitchen, and with no particular urgency, he opened the fridge and grabbed an orange bag that read: Narcan Kit. He also drenched a rag in cold water and wrung it out before grabbing an old mixing bowl from under the stove and moving back to his mother's side.

Easily, and with the fluidity and calmness of a seasoned doctor, Yumichika began to save his mother's life, or more aptly named, her existence. The man knew the preparation for nasal naloxone with the same expertise that he held for his turntables, going from step to step with a miffed expression.

To any onlookers, it would seem as if this was just a run of the mill annoyance, any another Wednesday, as if saving his mother was another humdrum errand to be checked off a list, right beside watering the plants and picking up some toilet paper. More so, the composed manner in which he handled himself would probably yield skepticism to whether the man cared if the woman died or not, as if he was purposely decelerating his movements in hopes death would beat him. Although it could be said that Yumichika's jadedness caused him little emotions over this 'hiccup' in his day, that was not the reason for his disposition.

For cinematic expressions were morphing people's perception of the real world. While in film, the climactically emotional drug overdose had to be tightly fitted within two minutes of screen time, the sweet relief of death was never so generous for those who found their end at the end of a needle. The expression 'the kiss of death' was perhaps fitting for those who die in other ways, but for the lost souls who took their own lives for granted, it was a kinky bastard, for sometimes he could drag out the tryst for hours, strangling, ridding a body of its natural inclination to breath, grasping the cardiac organ in its icy claws, and squishing it slowly until no more blood could travel to other vital organs. You'd only be so lucky to throw up and choke on your own regurgitation.

He turned the woman on her side and brushed the hair out of her face. His movements were cold and precise as he offered no comforting words or gestures. Such a phlegmatic constitution would even be considered cold-blooded by trained professionals, for he treated the woman more like a cadaver in a morgue than a living patient. Still, he performed the task, spraying the opiate blocker up her nasal pathway. Afterwards, he positioned the washcloth on her forehead and moved her flimsy appendages so she was securely on her side.

Next, he placed the bowl in the possible vomit-zone. "I swear, Midori, if you ruin this carpet with your foul release, you'll wish I had let you die. I just shampooed them," he groused more to himself, knowing she was still nowhere near lucid enough to hear him. Perhaps it was petty to scold someone tittering on the edge of an overdose, but pettiness was all he had left these days, that and his spotless, vomit - free carpet. If he had to put up with this constant fuckery, he surely didn't have to be happy about it. Then he waited, situated back on his heels while searching for a signal that the blockers were taking effect.

He glanced at the clock, the slightest tinge of worry running though him at the time. For that was what truly eroded his nerves, here he was, once again saving his mother at the expense of himself. Years went by and he'd learned every last facet of his soul was detachable, like some made in China barbie doll. Constantly, he offered up these deployable parts of himself in her place, wading in the shit pit that was their reality while she vacationed in her own personal retreat, unwinding in a lagoon of black tar. How naive he had been in his younger days, for he'd always blamed Gerald for taking away the bright-eyed woman he'd once known. It wasn't until later that he'd realized something, Gerald may have conducted the train, but Midori was the one who had packed her bags and bought the ticket.

That smidgen of truth took years to cultivate, and by that time, it was too late. All he knew to do was to protect her, or at least that's what he thought he was doing on account of Gerald's brainwashing. He felt absolutely useless, unable to shield his mom from her pain, blaming himself because he wasn't good enough to bring back that toothy smile. No matter what he did, no matter how good his grades were or how well he tended to the garden, no matter how many books he would read to her, he was never enough to make living in this reality with him even a feasible option. But he did have value, and that was as a receptacle for her pain, a living breathing sacrifice who was picked apart for his beauty. So little by little, he loaned out essential parts of himself like he was pawning sentimental, yet expendable, family heirlooms for the means of his own survival, only hoping they'd return to him once his mother snapped out of her trance. His innocence, restful nights, optimism, and happiness, it had all been plucked from him. Only Midori never came back to return the loan, and Yumichika was eventually drained until he was just a skin crafted bag, incapable of even looking at his own mother with love. His body was an abandoned house and his indurated bones were the framework. Until some glorious catastrophe knocked him down, he'd keep standing. It was all he knew, survival, for his coldness was born from his resilience. After years, he didn't know how to do anything else, as if his body refused to give in out of pure muscle memory.

He'd endure this desolate path until the world swallowed him up, because he truly believed that's what he deserved for never choosing a path that could truly protect his mom, for letting Gerald dictate his every movement through fear-based manipulation, for never being enough. Now it was hopeless. There was no turning back the clock or do-overs, and there was certainly no one left to save. Yumichika believed that the three of them deserved each other, they deserved to flounder around in the squalor for the rest of their days, atoning for their faults by being stuck in this despondency together.

The more Midori bobbed and weaved around death's fierce right hooks like a strung-out Mike Tyson, some would be inclined to believe the woman had a guardian angel. Of course, there was no such luck, for even if angels existed, Yumi was sure they'd be protecting much more worthy individuals. As dulcet and rosy as the thought of their dad looking after them through little specks in the clouds seemed in theory, the only guardian here was Yumichika. More so, he was glad that he didn't believe in heaven or hell, gods or angels, because he couldn't bear the idea of his father seeing what a disappointment they'd become.

After all this time, he wasn't even sure why he did it. What exactly was he saving at this point? A foundation of bones laying the groundwork for what could be a person? A mindless zombie who had used to be a real human being? What was the value of a life like this? He couldn't say, but more so, he couldn't let her die. His body refused it. Her looming yet dwindling life span had become like a creak in the floorboard or the slight annoyance of a ticking clock, something he'd became begrudgingly habituated to, coexisted with, but refused to fix. Maybe in the depths of his most ghastly parts, he just wouldn't give the woman the satisfaction. This woman prayed for an end like a drought prayed for a storm, but maybe some twisted sense of revenge wasn't letting her get off the hook that easy, not before he did. If he had to be there then so did she. Maybe he had been doing it so long that he knew no other way to be, maybe he was selfishly scared of the guilt he might feel, or perhaps, he couldn't bear to see the summation of every year spent, sacrifice made, and burden carried wither away into nonexistence. This woman was the very last part of himself, and if she died, what would be his reason to keep moving forward?

A spark of recognition came back to the woman's eyes as her breathing began to steady. Back on his haunches, Yumichika thought back to the night his last bit of hope evaporated.

 **xXx**

" _I cannot believe this!'" Yumichika groused loudly, no one to listen to his complaints other than the howling winds and thick humid darkness. He trudged on through the sinking grassy plains, scowling deeper with each heavy lift of his boots. Alongside the river_ , _he walked into the outskirts of downtown, a place where railroad tracks ended for no reason and the wild grass grew without maintenance. It was a place where abandoned_ , _supposedly_ haunted _shanties stood, albeit wobbly so. It was true that these shanties were haunted, but the ghosts that roamed their moldy confines were very much still alive. They were ghosts of choice, for they clung to the shadowy shakes, not the other way around. They hid from sight within the outskirts of normal society, ostracizing themselves into a clique of ghoulish dissenters to partake in their sybaritic behavior with no one to castigate them. They lived neither here nor there, neither dead nor alive. Real live ghosts couldn't walk through walls, and they were certainly more frightening than any storybook could depict._

 _When Gerald was shot and sentenced to the rehabilitation wing for a month or longer, Yumichika had felt a certain type of apprehensive shock. He felt like a hostage whose kidnapper had mistakenly left their door unlocked. He sat with his hand twitching over his handle, not sure what to do with the possibility of such freedom. He'd known nothing but being a prisoner for so long, a victim, that liberation almost seemed more frightening. Still, a little bit of hope had surged within Yumichika, and he couldn't live with himself if he didn't at least take the opportunity to try. Looking back, he had been delusional to think there was a way out, to think life would open a door and it wouldn't just lead him in a full circle._

 _For the most part, Yumichika believed that he deserved the wrath of life's chaotic games. There was no destiny or divine force to blame, life wasn't cruel, but merely random. It shuffles the deck, and you get the hand you're dealt, you play what you're given to the best of your abilities. Perhaps Yumichika had been given a bad hand, but that wasn't life's fault. No, he just played sorely, and deserved to lose. However, for the first time, he was mad at life, livid at the faceless system that kept this universe ticking away like a clock. Even though he knew better, he wanted to think of life as a merciless five year old burning ant hills with a magnifying glass, ruthlessly torturing those smaller simply because it could. To give false hope to the hopeless, well, that was just a pitiless type of brutality._

 _Once his mom's constant supply of life blockers had been taken away, she went into a gruesome withdrawal. With her lucid enough and in enough pain, Yumichika was able to convince her to enter into a rehabilitation center. He could tell she didn't want to get better, but the painful cycle of spasms, tremors, and vomiting was enough of an impetus to get her through the door- even if it was solely for the methadone that they'd pump her full of. It was a twenty-eight day program, and Yumichika couldn't help but feel the slightest tinge of optimism. Though it seemed a little idealistic to think twenty-eight days could reverse years of crippling addiction, he couldn't help but feel childishly hopeful. He thought about what he'd cook for her when she got back, what he'd say. He forgot all of his anger in the relief of what it be like to hug his mom again, and not while he was assisting her to the bathroom to throw up. Unfortunately, his mother wasn't feeling all so hopeful. Before the first week was up, she had checked herself out of rehab and never returned home. With no source of escape there, she had nothing to return home to, certainly not a hopeful son patiently awaiting for her return._

 _The rehab center told Yumichika that a lot of addicts congregate at the edge of the city under a large drawbridge, and that she could likely be there if she was in search of drugs. So like some indignant parent running across the town to retrieve their rebellious party-hearty teen, he went in pursuit. The abjectness of his situation settled deeply within the pits of his stomach like a heavy rock sinking into the grasp of the river. Since his mother wouldn't stop, the only way to keep her from the inevitable death of the streets was to keep Gerald around so he could continue to supply her habit. She wouldn't be safe, but safer, he thought_ …

 _It had been a pipe dream anyway, a fool's paradise that exited on another plane of time, before they were irrevocably damaged._

 _Approaching the bridge, his scowl grew even deeper. "This woman is going to give me frown lines," he moaned right as he accidentally stepped in a rather deep and muddy puddle. "Damn it, and now I've ruined my boots_. _" He shook his foot slightly as he tightened his first in supreme frustration. He was boiling over, but it had very little to do with boots. "These are Doc Martins and they're very expensive_. _" He slung his foot some more, trying to get some of the grime off, practically yelling out his complaints to the night sky. "Ughk, that damn woman, I just- I- ughhh!" He threw his arms up boisterously before pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes, trying to gather a little composure and decorum that he usually prided himself in._

 _Through gritted teeth, he sighed, "And now I'm talking to myself like a crazy person. This is a travesty." After a few more moments of reigning his emotions back in, he went forward._

 _Cars zoomed across the bridge like shooting stars lighting up the phantom faces lingering underneath. As he walked upon the hoard of people, the sight left an uneasy feeling in him. The sight of so many people just lingering, forever loiterers wherever they went, it was just another reminder of how sad life could be._

 _The people at the center had told Yumichika that a lot of people, especially the ones looking to buy drugs, just hung out under the bridge. Their words were confirmed as Yumichika walked among the sunken-faced beings lit up by flashes of headlights. As he looked for one specific face, he couldn't help but wonder if any of these people had any homes of their own, children they'd also abandoned. Overall, it was a very dreary sight and he wanted to leave as soon as possible._

 _Finally, against a graffiti-covered cement pillar, there sat the boney figure of his mother, nodding off to the side as her face fluttered blithely. Beside her, crouched down in front, was a stout woman in a heavy jacket and dressed rather nicely. She seemed to have all of her teeth and no oozing scabs on her face from years of heavy drug use. The woman looked as if she had gotten seriously turned around on her way to a phlebotomist convention, with the way she wielded packages of unused needles in her hand._

 _As Yumichika noticed her putting a package in his mother's coat pocket, he hurried over and gave her a forceful tap on the shoulder. "Excuse me, why did you just give her that?"_

 _Her plump face turned with an amused smiled. Two deep dimples were like mini cannons in her cheeks and her eyes looked like a pair of jade marbles._

" _YU-me-CHEEK-KAA," the blitzed women sing-songed. "My precious baby boy has come to see me."_

 _Turning her smile from the woman and back to Yumichika, she stood up and grinned heavier. "You're her son?" she questioned, putting out a head._

 _Yumichika stepped back and crossed his arms in snooty annoyance. Ignoring her gesture and turning his nose up slightly, he said, "Unfortunately, yes, I am that train wreck's offspring. Although, you wouldn't know it, as our roles are quite reversed."_

 _Not deterred by the rudeness, the woman placed her hand back to her side in complete amicability. "I see. Well my name's Remi Oliver, and I'm a counselor down at the university._

 _Yumichika's eyebrow perked in judgement. "Not to offend, Miss Oliver, but I think this lot is well beyond simple counseling." Yumichika cared about not offending about as much as a rattlesnake cared about foreign politics, and his sarcasm lent to that._

" _Well that's just my day job," she informed, "I also work for the Community Anti Drug Coalition of America. I know handing out clean needles doesn't seem very anti-drug, but our reasons are clear: we hope to prevent the spread of infection, especially of HIV, to the community inside and outside of the drug-using circle. Mostly, we believe in law reform that will aid in recovery for abusers and help force addicts into treatment facilities. While we cannot stop people from using, we can help save and protect them until they can hopefully get the help they need."_

 _Bending down, she reached into a red cooler that sat at her feet. "We also bring food and water out here often, blankets too." Standing back up, she held out her hand. "And these."_

 _Yumichika eyed the hand begrudgingly, as if she was asking him to hold her used tissue. "This is Narcan. It's an opiate blocker. Usually, people travel in these sorta makeshift packs. Since one can't administer it to themselves, I didn't give your mom one. She seemed to be all alone_. _" Smiling sweetly, she went on to say, "Luckily, she has you."_

 _Yumichika scoffed lightly as he took the bag. "Yes, I suppose." Giving the woman a mute look, he pondered, "May I ask you something, Miss Oliver? Why do you do this? It really seems like a waste of your time, trying to save people who don't want to be saved._ "

" _I like to think of it as a way to help keep people safe until they can choose to save themselves. I had son who was taken by a heroin overdose. I felt like I could have done much better by him. Since then, this seems like the least I can do."_

" _Ah, I see," he said somberly. "So this is the way you atone for your mistakes then?"_

 _With the smile of someone much wiser and experienced than he, she agreed, "Yes, you could see it as such, but is that such a bad thing? That's all us little humans can do, try to get better, grow from our mistakes."_

 _At that, he merely blinked thoughtfully and asked, "What would you have done differently? Do you believe anything would have really changed his addiction?"_

" _Hm," she pondered momentarily. "Honestly, I wish I had gotten him arrested."_

 _This was not the answer she expected, and it was apparent on the man's face. "At first I coddled him, tried to talk him out of it. When that didn't work, I kicked him out. I wish I had of made the hard decision to just call the police, tell them he was in my house with enough smack to throw him away for the better half of a decade, but I was too weak. In the end, I lost my son because of that." At the confused face, she said, "There's a saying, Yumichika: there's only three was to get off of heroine_. _You quit, you go to jail, or you die."_

" _You could say that about anything in life, if you really wanted to." He walked over to his mother and began to scoop her up. She grumbled and rambled insensibly for a few moments before going silent. "I could never do that to her. As much as this woman is the bane of my existence, I can't just let people lock her away with all of her bad memories. Not when all she wants is to…" At that, he cut himself off, not able to truly say the truth out loud._

 _As the boy started to walk away, his mother's dead weight making her ninety pound frame much heavier than it looked, the woman said, "If you need anything, or if you'd just like a friendly ear, please contact me at the university."_

 _At her big smile, he gave her a dubious glare before simpering mildly_ , _"Thank you for what you do, Miss Oliver."_

 **xXx**

Midori's eyes gaped widely with all the frantic confused curiosity of a newborn, completely sensitive to the stimulations of the world around her. For all intents and purposes, she was a child. Her lucid moments were becoming less and less frequent, and she needed help to remember to do things for herself. He felt a deep resentment towards her every time he looked into those perplexed eyes.

He would never be this, some incapacitated junkie who fell asleep with needles in their arms and couldn't even remember the day of the week. That's why what that Ikkaku character had said got under his skin, because this was what a junkie looked like. It was almost textbook, for Midori looked as if she could be in one of those D.A.R.E PSAs. This had-been mother was a role model for how not to be, a cautionary tale. When his time came, it would be in a blaze of adrenaline-filled glory, beautifully, and with all of his wits and teeth about him. More importantly, with his pride. Until then, he wouldn't be some pitiful decayed hag depending on the good will and bad senses of her spawn, the successor of all of her loose wires and mental malfunctions. The woman was fucked up, and that's all she'd ever given the boy, wonky DNA and a lineage of self-destruction. At least he had the consideration to not leave his mess for others to clean up.

And so what if he did coke every once in a while? In the end, it hurt no one but himself. Comparing the two, in Yumichika's opinion, was like comparing an ant hole to Mount Everest. He knew it was dangerous, but what was risk to the dead in delay? No, Yumichika was like a child who found their parents' matches and was setting fires for fun. He'd set his whole infrastructure flaring for curiosity's sake, just because he could.

Removing himself from his thoughts, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911. "Yes," he explained to the operator, "my mother was overdosing. I gave her an injection of Narcan about five minutes ago…Mhm…Yes…" He rolled his eyes. "No. I'll pick her up later, but I won't be here when you arrive." There was no way he'd ruin his whole day with a Gerald run-in. He didn't care if it came off as selfish; he'd already done his part. Since that evening, Yumichika had somehow grown close to Remi- as close as Yumichika could be to anyone. She was his only confidante. He knew she'd help him get his mom home later. After giving the man the address, he closed his phone and rushed out of the house.

You know what they say, when it rains, it pours at the most inhumanly inconvenient times, forcing you into awkward situations with your estranged sort-of stepdad. Okay, so perhaps he'd taken some personal liberties on the idiom, but considering what he saw when he walked out the front door, it felt appropriate.

With all the baldness of an old tire and the leather of a 1980's Madonna music video, Ikkaku leaned against his bike just waiting. He looked like one of those losers in their twenties who waited outside of their sixteen year old girlfriend's high school to pick them up. Yumichika recoiled at the sight. Today was running similar to a video game; he had to keep completing these side quests before he could finally finish his main objective. This was _exactly_ what he needed.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Yumichika asked with a put-off glare. Of course he remembered Ikkaku. He remembered him vividly, more than most people he met. Still he found being an insufferable cunt was an efficient way to make people bug off.

Ikkaku scowled at that, baring his teeth. "I knew ya' were high, but not that damn high," he practically growled at the less that hospitable greeting.

"Ah, now I remember." Yumichika walked closer, adjusting his bag around his shoulder. "The judgmental brute from the club. Excuse me." He rolled his eyes and preened in the reflection of his phone. "With all of the drugs, I remembered you being a lot cuter." This was another lie. In the natural sunlight that could be so unflattering for most, Ikkaku actually looked more handsome than Yumichika remembered, bizarrely so, for if he had a type, this Hell's Angel's manifestation was not it. He wore plain clothes that Yumichika could tell concealed a muscular body, boots, a leather jacket, and a confident devil-may-care aura around him. His eyes were as intense as his mouth was straightforward. Most peculiar were the vibrant red tattoos that added to his handsome face. They had a weird way about them, giving off an indefinable sensation. In one way, they reminded him of the way girls would wear eyeshadow, but more so, it reminded him of war paint. The markings brightened him while making him equally as foreboding in appearance. Yumichika couldn't get a good reading on this man, and that made his defenses go up quicker than a car window while driving through a dangerous neighborhood.

Nonetheless, he was sure that comment had hammered the last nail into this conversation, and even more ideally, all of their interactions.

Imagine his surprise when Ikkaku didn't immediately turn and drive away, like any sane man would have done.

"You're about as bratty as I remember," Ikkaku said matter of factly. Admittedly, he hadn't been expecting this shit carnival as soon as he got here, nor for insults to be slung at him like their piece of candy off of a Thanksgiving Day parade float. Most people would've received a 'fuck off,' possibly verbally or with his fist, depending on his mood. Then again, for most, he wouldn't be standing here in the first place.

More than his music or his looks, it was the way Yumichika's attitude towards people reminded him of the way he was once upon a terror that made him stay it was a time where he lived every day with ruthless hate growing inside of him, feeding off of his constant fighting. Ikkaku lived solely for himself, only knowing he was alive by the heartbeat in his chest and the blood on his knuckles. He fought as if it could finally satisfy the nagging appetite of this living, breathing beast, born from his hostility. Only, that's not what pacified the pitiless hunger. It wasn't until he was forced into staying with his hard ass of an uncle and his cousin that some of that restlessness settled. His uncle had helped him redirect that anger, he'd taught him that if he was going to fight, fight for something or someone, even if it was just honor. Eventually fighting became more based in competitiveness than contempt. After that came his drums, and then the band. As much as it pained him to even acknowledge internally, it was the care of other people he had needed. He'd needed people to give a shit, because he certainly hadn't, though you'd sooner see him chomping on a tail mix of broken glass, nails, and old cigarette butts before Ikkaku would verbalize such a sentiment, he knew it to be the truth.

The beast still rattled the cage, and Ikkaku certainly never lost his infatuation towards fighting, but he wasn't the same person that he'd used to be. Before he'd met Yumichika, it hadn't even dawned on him how different he actually was. In that same manner, Yumichika reminded him of a dog that had gotten beaten and left on the side of the road, and now growled and cowered in the presence of humans. Perhaps they both expressed that hate differently, but it was similar in more ways than not.

It was his desire to know why that won over his usually prideful nature. What made a man like Yumichika so filled with such fear and hate? He almost didn't want to know, because like Pandora's Box, once he opened the truth, he couldn't put it back, no matter how devastating it was. The beauty was so young, not that age made any difference. Adversity wasn't some exclusive club that only inflicted itself upon card-holding members. It never discriminated. By Yumichika's house, it was obvious that it wasn't a silver spoon stuck up his ass. Ikkaku had no problem spotting an entitled white-collar narcissist who spent their time getting high off of their parents' money, seeing as he went to school with plenty. No, tragedy had a distinct stench to it, and it intermingled with the scent of the man's lilac shampoo.

He knew it was probably in his best interest to leave this be, but something in his gut told him he'd regret giving up so easily.

"Sorry, did I hurt your feelings?" Yumichika smacked in a saucy tone.

Ikkaku actually grinned at that. "Like you could do that." Yumichika glared at the man like some mystical creature, wondering who this aberrant stranger thought he was, just driving in on some metal stallion like he had every right.

Straddling the bike, Ikkaku nodded towards Yumichika in a come hither fashion. "Come on, let's go get some coffee and then I can take you to class. You can tell me all about that prissy attitude of yours."

If this was anyone else, Yumichika would have been the survivor he was and took up the offer. If men took no qualms in doing for him in hopes that they'd get something intimate from him in return- as if buying dinner for him was some kind of unspoken contract that entitled men to his body- he had no issue in profiting off their shallowness. Something about Ikkaku was different though, because it wasn't the free coffee that made him want to go, and that was just not something he wanted in his life.

"I'd rather not," he said hastily, starting to walk towards the half a mile trail that led to the university. Yet, before he could make his escape, Ikkaku snatched the phone out of his hand. "What are you doing?" he snapped.

Rolling his eyes, Ikkaku punched his number into the phone. "If you want something to do tonight, my band's having a show. Just text me."

Gaping adorably, or at least Ikkaku though so, Yumichika stood without words for a moment. It was the sound of distant sirens that made him realize how long he just stared silently. He blushed in a mixture of frustration and embarrassment, caused by some weird alien feeling that was a akin to having a group of mini goblins partying in his abdomen, wrecking the whole joint, setting fires even. The feeling was only augmented by Ikkaku's shit eating grin. In a bout of humiliation, he yanked his phone back and sputtered, "Don't hold your breath," before turning away promptly.

Before driving away, Ikkaku smirked slightly. "What a weird guy."

 **xXx**

.

Strolling through the hallways of the university, neither in a particular hurry, Ichigo and Rukia talked idly. The two has become fast friends, and Ichigo liked knowing that they could be comfortable in complete silence while also being able to talk about much of anything. Things flowed naturally between the pair, almost as if they were siblings. They certainly bickered like it.

Ichigo's thoughts went to their gig that evening and the practice they'd had the night prior. Most of the evening had been spent learning their new song, yet the whole process had moved rather quickly. Ikkaku's whining about the new drum line had beene tamed by beer, and everyone had caught on before Renji could even start bitching about his aching calluses.

Afterwards, they'd talked about the agonizingly overcomplicated issue of renaming the band. Such simple band politics was more like a month-long group project where Ichigo did all of the work. Ikkaku was about as interested in anything lyrical or literature-related as he was in knitting. Uryu, who usually took care of the more business side of things, was equally as indifferent and ill adept to come up with something fitting. Renji, well, Renji's ideas were just embarrassingly bad, despite the fact he was actually a pretty skilled song writer. Ichigo ended up naming the band 'Gold Steady,' paying homage to his two favorite musicians, Jack White and Ryan Adams.

In reality, Ichigo was the sentimental type, despite hiding it behind bellowing reprimands, insulting the group by saying they didn't have enough creative prowess between three heads to complete a paint-by-numbers picture. Truthfully, he wanted the band to have a name that could mean something to all of them.

Call him idealistic, but he thought the next time around could yield something. It was a silly hope, for everyone knew that sequels are always worse than the originals. Renji, bless his big goofy heart, suggested, in complete earnest, that they call the band Asian Persuasion. Though his reasons were obvious, it was still as obviously stupid. Ikkaku just grunted and said they could name the band 'The Big Gay Kurosaki Experience' for all he cared, and then asked everyone about ordering pizza. Uryu, being the laugh riot that he was, sarcastically suggested they call the band I^3 R^2, representing the names of each of the members. When Ichigo said that they were a band, not an algebraic expression, Uryu shot back with, 'Um, actually, those are just basic exponents,' before chastising Ichigo's lackluster math skills.

As all hope seemed lost, beautiful, amazing, not completely brain dead Rukia suggested something that the whole group seemed to genuinely like. She explained that she read a book compiled by famous linguists, each presenting an English phrase they personally found to be particularly beautiful or profound. Her favorite phrase had been 'strange cynosure.' Since Ikkaku only read when it involved mandatory homework or correctly heating up a hot pocket- sometimes, not even then, Uryu had to explain that saying 'strange cynosure' was a different way of saying a 'strange attraction'. Ichigo was unsure why, but something about it sat well with the group. Even Ikkaku said he liked it, which was nothing short of a victory. Ichigo didn't question these unexplained miracles.

Rukia had been munching on some Pocky as Ichigo walked beside her, his face settled in its usual aloof position. Suddenly, Ichigo's features widened in a slight panic as he smoothly threw an arm around Rukia and navigated them in the opposite direction.

"We should walk this way, Rukia. We never go this way, let's be spontaneous," he urged, his arm forcefully ushering her along like he was her own personal body guard. Sadly for Ichigo, Rukia was having none of that baloney.

Using her miniature stature to her advantage, she ducked under Ichigo's arm. "Stop acting weird, Ichigo. You said you had to drop by the library, and it's this way."

Ichigo bit his lip slightly while trying and failing, to look discreetly across the hallway. Rukia would have almost felt sad at the way Ichigo's face contorted pitifully if it wasn't so humorous. "Do you see that guy over there? The one with a green shirt and a grey jacket?"

"Sorta." She squinted, taking note she needed to change to prescription for her glasses.

"That my ex, Jeremy."

"So?" Rukia glared, looking rather annoyed. "Only children hide from their exes."

"Didn't you tell me you've never even dated anyone? How do you know what people do with their exes?"

"That has nothing to do with this!"

"It has everything to do with it!" Noticing Jeremy walking closer, Ichigo's looked like a scared animal. His flight instinct was engaging and it was telling him to get the hell out of there. "Look, Rukia, you don't understand. This guy still likes me, and every time I see him, he's always trying to ask me to do things with him. The dude just can't take a hint. I've tried to be nice about it but-"

"That's your problem! You're always blunt despite people's feelings, so why bite your tongue for this guy?" Rukia questioned, one tiny fist shaking in the air and one gripped tightly to her sugary snack.

"It's called having a conscience, Rukia! Ya' know, guilt and sympathy, ever heard of it?"

Rukia crossed her arms and turned her nose up. "Tch- I'd have to make a mistake to feel guilty. I don't make mistakes." She stepped in front of Ichigo, who tried to make a break for it when he saw Jeremy was no longer talking to someone in the hallway and was now walking towards them once more.

"Evil and arrogant, you're like a mini dictator! What kind of things are they teaching you rich kids anyway?"

"Etiquette classes, economics, sword-fighting, and the importance of good breeding, so basically how to be a little dictator." Pulling on Ichigo's shirt, she took him by surprise, spinning him so that he was facing Jeremy's now hastened movements.

Now Rukia had ruined his Plan B: avoiding eye contact like the lil' bitch he was and zooming past Jeremy before any words could be exchanged.

"You damn Napoleon Bonaparte, you blocked my escape," he groused over his shoulder.

"Was that a short joke?"

"Yes."

"Nice," Rukia complimented, genuinely impressed. Like a momma bird shoving her babies from the nest, she heaved Ichigo forward towards the man. "You'll thank me for this later."

"Fat chance," he grumbled as Jeremy approached. Rukia had been expecting some kind of pseudo-intellectual dweeb who carried around copies of Hemingway everywhere he went and only dressed in a black and grey color pallet, not this veritable GQ model. He had the muscles of Ryan Reynolds and a face as chiseled as Mount Rushmore. It was the kind of face that people painted pictures of and that caused time to slow down as they entered the room, like a real-life movie cliché. Ichigo was certainly no troll, and he had more male eyes on him than an exotic dancer wearing a g-string made of one dollar bills, but how many of those men had beautiful faces that looked valuable enough to have their own insurance policy?

Now standing behind him, off to the side like some kind of hype man or moral support, she chewed on a chocolate covered cracker and said, "We need to seriously evaluate your delusional standards."

Rukia reminded Ichigo of one of those parents who'd just push their kids in the pool to teach them how to swim, all while nonchalantly standing back, yelling discouraging comments as their child thrashed around and tried not to die. He scowled in her direction, but his tirade was cut off by the unsought presence of Jeremy's toothy smile that was bright enough to light up a desolate highway or Rukia's crepuscular unsympathetic soul.

"Hey, Ichigo!" Jeremy greeted, flashing those headlights, and like a deer in those beams, Ichigo froze. He'd been too preoccupied being annoyed at Rukia to think of a suitable excuse to not spend time with the man. Last week it had been the girls, the week before it was mounds of school work, neither of these things particularly false. Being unprepared led to being under pressure, and Ichigo lied about as well as a poker player with a ten game losing streak when put on the spot.

He'd say something like, 'Sorry, I rented every M. Night Shyamalan movie ever made from Block Buster and I have to finish them this week before I get a late fee' or 'my horoscope advised I only go out when the moon's in its waxing crescent phase.' Basically, his lies had more holes than the clothes of a clumsy chain smoker.

Why did he even have to be in this situation? Ichigo didn't break up with the guy so they could spend _more_ time together. Wasn't that one of the unspoken rules of social norms? He shouldn't exactly have to be an ass to the guy to make him get it. Perhaps it was Jeremy's twisted form of revenge, and he yielded entertainment from watching Ichigo squirm uncomfortably at their forced interactions.

After such a long hesitation, Jeremy asked, "Are you okay, Ichigo?"

That's when Rukia rolled her eyes and intervened, obviously having little patience for the whole awkward situation. "No, he's not okay," she explained, hand on hip. "He has this really dense ex who can't get lost, and keeps asking him to hang out every chance he gets. It's really annoying."

The light of recognition washed over the man's momentarily confused features. He glanced back and forth between the two. Ichigo had gone speechless and was taking a keen interest on the lamination of the floor.

"Oh," he shifted awkwardly. "I see. Excuse me," he mumbled, pushing straight pass the two, breaking up their triangle of tension.

Still in shock from the verbal savagery he just given witness too, barely over a mumble, he said, "That was brutal, Rukia."

"Not really," Rukia disagreed, shrugging her shoulder. "That's just real. You can't be afraid to break someone's heart just because it might hurt their feelings. He's not a delicate flower or some fragile expensive vase, and treating his feelings as such is more of an insult to him than anything. Trust me, being forthright about how you feel, no matter how harsh, is better than being a coward. That guy's probably never had anyone tell him he can't have anything, with how good looking he is. That's probably why he didn't seem to understand you didn't want to see him even after you broke up with the guy. He learned a lesson here," putting on a mock smile, Rukia poised, "grew as a person."

"I'd hold back on being a life coach anytime soon. We'd see a spike in suicide rates," Ichigo deadpanned.

"Hey! I used my wickedness for good. I think it benefited the both of you in the end."

Ichigo chuckled and shook his head in amusement. "I feel bad for the first guy you date. I've never seen anyone but Professor Kuchiki completely demoralize a person with just one sentence."

Her brother's name was a reminder of something she needed to do before the show that evening, something without Ichigo around. "If just one comment from a stranger could tear apart his confidence, then it wasn't that established in the first place. Anyway, I just remembered, I need to do some stuff before the show tonight. I'll meet up with you later, okay?"

Shrugging, Ichigo said, "Cool, see ya' around." Now back on track to the library, Ichigo waved over his shoulder. "And try not to destroy the resolve of anyone else while you're out of my sight."

"No promises," Rukia retorted, walking in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes and a whole pack of Pokey later, Rukia found herself standing in front of her brother's classroom. She opened the door to find him organizing papers in his Filson Harvey messenger bag that cost more than all of Rukia's school books combined. The woman smiled brightly at the sight as she took note of Byakuya's lunch sitting on his desk, a container of half-eaten fiercely spicy Sichuan Dan Dan Noodles, a banana, and a bottle of green tea.

"Hey, Byakuya," Rukia greeted, walking into the classroom.

The man looked up with mild surprise. "Rukia, what's going on?" he asked, placing his bag to the side.

"I just wanted to let you know that I won't be home until late tonight. I'm going to be with my study group this evening. We have this major history exam coming up," she lied.

"The notice is considerate, but you're twenty-one now, you don't have to inform me when you'll be out late."

"I know, but I know you worry if I don't show up. Plus, you've been letting me stay with you throughout college. It's the least I can do since you're being so considerate." _'Okay, so I could also not lie to you, but_ … _'_

Byakuya smiled mutely at that before taking a seat. "You're my sister, it's of no concern at all." Tapping his fingers on the desk, he added hesitantly, "I'll be out this evening also."

The look on Rukia's face was gaped as if Byakuya had just told her he was having dinner with the late Kurt Cobain. She tried to hold back her eagerness. "Really? Wha-what are you doing?"

"Do you remember Professor Shihouin?" he asked, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

"Of course, I remember Yoruichi!"

"Yes, well, I'm spending this evening with her and her…friend," he admitted, the words came out as painfully as a bullet in the side.

With Rukia's eyes stretched to their capacity and her eyebrows perking from her forehead, she urged, "Like a date?"

Byakuya scoffed. "Yoruichi would call it that, I'm sure. I'm calling it a waste of my time."

Considering Byakuya's dating life was as existent as the Loch Ness Monster, Rukia was beaming like a ball of sunshine. "Byakuya, that's great. You deserve to be happy, so I wish you wouldn't be so negative about it. You haven't really been out since…well…you know." Her voice trailed off slightly as a more demure smile took her face.

The pocket watch in his pants felt like a boulder at the girl's words. "I suppose you're right…Rukia," he looked up to her softly, "have you heard from her lately?"

The girl's knuckles whitened at the question as she lowered her head with a simper. "Yes," she responded honestly, "but I wish you wouldn't ask me such things."

"I did not mean to put you in an uncomfortable position," Byakuya assured flatly. "I was merely asking because I wanted to confirm that she was staying in contact with you. Whatever problems she has with me shouldn't effect you."

"That's not why you shouldn't ask, Byakuya," the girl explained, her mauve orbs deepened with anger. "You shouldn't ask because you shouldn't care, not after what she did to you."

With a tonality and eyes that the girl knew to signify the man's authority, Byakuya said, "Rukia, wha-"

"Ugh!" the woman stomped with all the frustration of an angsty pre-teen girl. "I don't want to hear you defend her anymore. You're not even my real brother and you're a better sibling than her." Seemingly upset to the point of brimming tears, Rukia continued calmly, "You're… a good person who deserves good things. You didn't deserve what she did or the way she left things."

His sister's authentic care and rare emotional diatribe took all the fire from his lecture. "I'm sure she had her reasons. Whatever those are, I don't want that effecting your relationship with her."

"Yeah, her reason is that she's a selfish person who thinks only of herself," Rukia muttered. Pushing her hair out of her face and behind her ears, the women sighed heavily and crossed her arms. "It's not like she did me much better than you, so either way, I have plenty of reasons to feel resentment towards her." Turning on her heels, she announced, "I have to go now. The fall of Rome won't learn about itself. I hope you have a good night, brother."

"Rukia," Byakuya's voice met her before she made it through the door. "Would you want to spar over the weekend?"

The question made the girl turn with a pleased smirk. "Sure, but we gotta' saber."

"Fine," the man agreed, preparing to put a fork full of noodled in his mouth. "Foil or saber, I'll still win."

 **xXx**

Being at a gay bar after hours was a lot like being at an abandoned amusement park, the silence and solitude was just so eerily out of place. It was actually more weird without duct tape wielding drag queens running around, looking for a volunteer to help them bind their junk, or little gay boys twerking atop boxes, their sweaty bodies shinning like tinsel under the club lights. Alas, every Wednesday, Melrose came to stockpile the liquor and take inventory, making sure he was prepared for the weekend. He took notice that the blue liquor was low and made a mental note to order some more. Hell hath no fury like a tweaking queen without his eight dollar Blue Motorcycle.

Humming along to the music in his headphone, Melrose saw Yumichika out of the corner of his eye walking down the stairs and through the club room. It wasn't so odd to see employees coming and going throughout his work, since Wednesday was pay day. However, it was bizarre to see Yumichika without a crew of adoring and tentative admirers throwing drugs and compliments at his feet.

Melrose was a big believer in the importance of vibes. Vibes were everything and transuded from a person without a single word leaving their mouths. It was the body language one held and the energy that radiated from them. Yumichika's usual vibes were arrogant, playful, and lively, though cocaine would do that to a person.

It then hit Melrose that this was the first time he'd seen Yumichika sober, and it was all the more apparent by his change in temperament. No, the man's whole aura had been dampened. Everything about him was listless and lukewarm, from his tenantless expression, to his labored movements. Over all, the man just seemed bone-weary, only not in the physical sense. His mental exertion shined through his very essence.

It made Melrose think back to Ikkaku and his, what Melrose considered at the time to be, naive way at perceiving Yumichika's bad attitude. Perhaps the man had been right, maybe the actor stopped performing whenever there wasn't an audience.

Yumichika strolled passed him, not seeming to notice Melrose in the slightest, or at least he didn't acknowledge him. The barkeep fretted at that, for it was unlike the man to not say anything to him. However, it didn't seem to be out of smugness, but genuine introspection, as if he honestly didn't perceive Melrose at all.

"Yumichika?" Melrose called as the DJ started walking towards the exit.

The man spun immediately, his hands automatically going into a defensive stance. His face looked briefly electrified in the millisecond before his brain could register Melrose. "You scared me, Melrose." His stature calmed as he let his fingertips brush his chest.

The barkeep tilted his head at the queer behavior. There was such an unusual trepidation in the man's disposition, but then again, Melrose didn't really know Yumichika's usual. Why was he so fidgety? What was he so afraid of?

"Are you okay? You seem a little on edge."

"Of course." He shook his head slightly before running his hands over his shirt, as if to work out any wrinkles, although the garment was about as rumpled as the flesh of a newborn. The movements were uneasy, unnecessary, and compulsive, signifying the man was full of nervous energy. Still he talked as if he was perfectly fine, to the point it would distract most from this neurotic hand jive. "The owner, Erika, is such a slime ball. I'm always a little put off after I encounter him."

"Huh," Melrose poised, the disbelief apparent in his voice. "That's all? You're vibes seem very mentally fatigued."

"You and your silly vibes," Yumichika teased, walking over to the bar. "Couldn't I possibly just be sleepy?" Now perching his elbows on the wood, he said, "Besides, dealing with Erik is a mental workout of its own. It takes a lot of patience to not uppercut him right in his vulgar mouth."

Inspecting the man's blanched face, Melrose taunted with a smirk, "Now that you're closer, I can see these drab shadows under your eyes." Melrose theatrically put the back of his palm to his forehead, mocking the dramatized chauvinistic portrayal of women going easily lightheaded from mild surprise, because their brains were _apparently sooo_ inferior and fragile. "Yumichika not looking completely pristine?" he inhaled deeply, "I've never. You must truly be tired to let yourself go in such a manner."

With a genuine chuckle, sorta the blue moon of audible responses for Yumichika, he thought Melrose's exaggerated mannerisms and playful dispositioned made him more suited for slinging out lines on a stage instead of drinks at a bar.

Primping his hair, he returned the taunt with an equal amount of hubris. "Perhaps _you_ have to worry about such things, but my beauty is transcendent."

The clink-clanking of bottles being put away mixed with Melrose's robust laugh. "I see you're still plenty awake enough to insult me. There's the Yumi I love. So," Melrose redirected the conversation, "how did it go with mister tall, built, and profane?"

Yumi simpered at the description, a self-conscious gesture Melrose was unacquainted with. "It was fun, but nothing extraordinary. Mostly, he became more trouble than the evening was worth."

"Really?" Melrose sighed in disappointment. "He seemed like second date material to me."

Deflecting, Yumichika jested, "Alright fairy gay-mother, I don't need your concern. I'm just not looking for those type of relationships in my life." Yumichika said that sentence in terms of his personal relationships so many times that he could trademark it. The perfectly picked morphemes formed a vague and almost empty mantra. It said nothing while saying it all, for the truth was hidden within the lie.

Busying his mouth with a bottle of water, Melrose bite back a cheeky response while giving Yumichika a leer that screamed 'I see through you, but I'm choosing not to say anything.'

"And what about you?" Yumichika happily changed the subject, "Did that walking stoplight of yours ever come back?"

Melrose leaned in on his elbows and squished his face into his hands to muffle a long groan. In his typical thespian fashion, his palms connected and formed a v shape, to which his chin settled into. His gaze was dreamy and filled with hopeless admiration, like a child with pictures of little cherry blow pops dancing in his head. "No. It's sad. I only met him once, and he left me quite struck. You don't meet a man like him every day," he gushed. All Melrose was missing was one of those animated thought bubbles floating above his head with a picture of Renji superimposed in the middle. Melrose was such a fanciful sap.

"It is sort of an enigma to meet a straight man at a gay bar."

To this, Melrose just groaned louder. "I was speaking of his vibes, not his sexual inclination." Twiddling his thumbs in a coy manner, Melrose admitted, "I'm rarely attracted to anyone I meet here, and even so, never like this. I could have sworn he was interested, but I guess denial beats out attraction." With panicked eyes, he exerted facetiously, "I think I may have caught the feelings, 'Chika."

"Well we must cure you." The DJ crinkled his nose humorously. "We wouldn't want that spreading around the club. It be worse than the time we had that mini syphilis epidemic."

Melrose laughed thoughtfully. Perhaps Ikkaku wasn't the only one who could be foolishly optimistic, for the barkeep was finding himself keen on the idea of trying to befriend Yumichika. In the few short moments they'd spent together outside of their hostile gay-eat-gay work environment, Yumichika already seemed different. He was mellowed and perhaps - dare he say it - friendly. He still had more defenses than a well-trained military, but apparently, after a year of working together and Melrose's constant well-intended mettlesome, he'd scaled some of those walls.

The two certainly weren't BFFs promenading for flat breads and lattes, however, more than any other coworker, Yumichika took to - or tolerated, as Melrose use to think - the barkeep. With the intel gathered from Ikkaku's spying, it made Melrose wonder if he was the closest thing the man had to a friend. Everything about him had always seemed so solitary.

"What are you doing this evening?" Melrose questioned.

"I'm going to a show," he responded indifferently. "A band hired me to compose a track for them, and I'd like to go see how it turned out."

"That's oddly nice of you."

Yumichika scoffed, "It's called rubbing elbows. This is how I make money, and I'd like for them to acquire my services again."

"Now that sounds more like you." Melrose smirked, to which Yumichika playfully batted at his shoulder.

Turning around, Melrose put on a cardigan and a beanie before proclaiming, "Okay. Well I'm done here, so I'm going with you."

"Excuse me?" Yumichika erected an eyebrow in opposition.

"You said I needed a cure. Sitting at home and watching reruns of the Twilight Zone is going to do nothing for this slump," he reasoned, roving from around the bar.

Apprehensively, Yumichika eyed the man for a moment, feeling fairly confused. "What? Let me guess, your plans fell through and now you're trying to tag along with me?"

Impishly, Melrose quipped, "Oh yeah, I have two chocolate hunks at home waiting for me. They're called Ben and Jerry, but we have a very unhealthy relationship. I'm thinking of ending it."

Friendships unsettled Yumichika for a couple of reason. Most prominently, he trusted people like he trusted three am infomercials marketing the newest fad diet pill. People were uncontrollable variables, consequence to change based upon their own personal agenda. They couldn't be predicted, and for a man who craved control, it was impossible to let people in. It had been so long since he'd had a friend that the concept was about as foreign as a different language. The whole notion made Yumichika sickly rueful about ever being so sociable with Melrose. Although, even for him, it was difficult keeping everyone out all the time. There were so many doors to hold shut and only one of him. At some point, the barkeep had wedged his foot in, and like an aggressive door-to-door salesman, he wouldn't budge.

Without even noticing, the two had become something that resembled friends, and he couldn't just return to his typical affronted high-strung ways. He couldn't just verbally abuse Melrose until he left him alone. For one, the man's bullshit meter was too in tune for that. He knew Yumi too well to fall for such measures, something the DJ was now starting to regret. Also, something in him actually cared, and that was a horrifying development. Care lead to connection, and connection lead to hope, false hope, the most perilous addiction of them all.

"Fine," Yumichika sighed in acquiescence. "I suppose I would like to drink tonight, so having a DD would come in handy."

The barkeep rolled his eyes, but took what he could get. "And how are you drinking? You're only twenty."

 **xXx**

 **Sachiko Heiwajima: That's great to hear, because I try to keep them relatively similar to themselves. Ichigo's quite sarcastic in the manga, so I like to make him a total smart ass in this. lol. Don't worry, you'll find out more about why Rukia doesn't want them to know about her being Byakuya's sister. I've implied it, but it's not perfectly clear. Shit's sorta going to hit the fan next chapter with everyone running into each other. I hope you like it.**

 **PandasoulsReaper: Oh shucks. *Blushes* I'm flattered. It makes me super happy to know I'm capable of changing someones religion with my writing alone. lol. I'm more talented than I realized :P I really enjoyed writing last chapter and parts where the bands all together. Not all chapters will be lighthearted like the last one, as you can probably tell from this chapter, so in between I'll have moments where the bands all together for some more giggle worthy moments.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey loves. Okay, so let me go ahead and get this out of the way, because I know some people are going to read this and decide they don't like it based off of assumptions. You learn more about Byakuya's back story in this chapter and while it may seem as if I'm villainizing Hisana, trust that this is not the case. I repeat, I am** **NOT** **Hisana bashing. As you'll read, things won't look to good for her, but you'll also notice that theres a lot that isn't said and that even Byakuya doesn't know. This will be addressed and dealt with, just not till much later in the story. I worked very hard on her backstory and while it may seem as if she comes across as the bad guy, she will be redeemed. So please don't let the assumption I'm bashing a charter for my own ship keep you from enjoying this, because that's just not the case. My beta actually said she didn't think she could read my story if that was the direction I was going for, but when I told her about Hisana's back story, she said that it was awesome and that it related to cannon so much.**

 **Okay, I'm done with the ranting. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I am sorry for how long it's taken to come out but I appreciate all of the people who are keeping up with this. This chapter and the next were actually suppose to all be one chapter, but my fingers have a mind of their own and I just kept typing away until this chapter became too long. (Typical of me)**

 **Theres tones of Yoruichi and Byakuay banter in this. Seriously, I love them two. I could write them all day. It's all for the sake of character development thought!**

 **Word to know**

 **jayus: an Indonesian word that means a joke so badly told or so unfunny that you have to laugh. We have no english counterpart for this.**

 **Good vibes ~ Ashes**

 **xXx**

" **I believe that I, was born with a song inside of me"- ZBB**

 **xXx**

 **Once More With Feeling**

"Where's my green headband?" Renji was stomping around the cramped and noisy backstage area profusely, picking up and shuffling around everyone and everything in a desperate search for his staple accessory. Renji wore headbands as if they were a symbol of his religious credo. They were like fashionable safety nets for the man, since he felt rather out of place without one.

With little time remaining, Renji pushed aside a guitar-tuning Ichigo in a rather obtuse manner while disorganizing stacks of sheet music for his cause.

"What the hell!" Ichigo scowled deeply before shoving Renji out of the way to reclaim his spot. "Just use a different one. Why does it have ta' be that one?"

Renji was jumping around like a bunny on cocaine, pulling at his long cherry tresses in frustration. "It's gotta' be the green one! It goes with my outfit."

"Are you telling me you like to color coordinate, Renji?" asked Rukia, smirking humorously.

"Yeah, so? I like to look good when we perform." Renji stepped over his vest that sat on the floor in-between Ishida and Orihime, who were sewing patches onto the holey thrift store-swindled garment. With all the annoyance he could muster in a singular gesture, Ishida pushed up his glasses and shook his head at the question he was about to ask.

"Did you check your pockets, Renji?" Ishida thought that if the scientists of the world could figure a way to transmute all of Renji's nervous energy into electrical currents, the energy crisis would cease to exist. A franticly nervous and energetic Renji was a thoughtless one.

Amid his mad rummaging, Renji stopped and thoughtfully creased his brow as if such an ingenious and cutting edge idea had never occurred to him. Frisking himself down thoroughly, he pulled out the band with all the wide-eyed frolic and amazement of a child seeing their first magic trick. He might as well have pulled out a dove or a never-ending assortment of knotted multi-colored hair bands.

Too elated to be embarrassed about his obvious oversight, Renji fitted the adornment. "Righteous!"

Meeting needle to fabric, Ishida mocked, "There's nothing virtuous about how dim-witted you're capable of being."

Renji gave his bandmate a stink eye, but didn't allow the derisiveness to dampen his blitheness.

With all the ethereal pizzazz that defined her, Orihime gave a sincerely sympathetic grin towards her fellow redhead. "It's okay, Renji, at least you're pretty and good at playing instruments."

Though only half listening, Ichigo chuckled to himself while open G-tuning his guitar. Orihime had, without any intention, completely insulted Renji in a manner that was so rot-your-mouth-out sweet that Renji hadn't even noticed. It was a hilarious and endearing quality, so Ichigo could see why Ishida was so taken by her. The salty and sweet combo complimented each other well, like milkshakes and french fries.

"And when we're done with your vest, you'll look like a regular Kurt Koban!" The girl puffed her bosom up with an air of determination, wiping her brow and picking back up her needle.

"It's Kurt Cobain, babe," Uryu corrected in the _least_ condescending manner any of them had ever heard. Love would do crazy things to a man.

Picking up two patches, Orihime held them up for Renji to see. "When Ishida called to see if I wanted to help you guys out tonight, I stopped at this funky store downtown. They sell all kinds of cool patches, so I bought some that looked urm-rocker-ish? Anyway, which one do you like?"

The redhead was like one of those nurses who snuck their patients extra juice boxes or the teacher who wrote personal messages on each of her students test: genuinely thoughtful. "You're the best, Orihime! You didn't have ta' do all that," Renji proclaimed, squatting down in front of the couple to closely examine the patches. One was a stenciled image of Morrissey- lyrical deity and front man for The Smiths. The other was a 'Runaway' patch with a cherry, the stem aglow with a spark. It was a literal cherry bomb. Thinking back to the last person who'd coined him as such, he reddened slightly and pointed to that one.

"Everything's clear out front." Walking from the stage, Ikkaku, looking utterly drained, gave a thumbs-up. "All the equipment is up and running. All we gotta do is plug in."

An obstreperous grumbling noise erupted from the pits of the man's stomach. It sounded akin to the moan of a baleen whale sounding from the Mariana Trench. Considering the depths of the man's quenchless appetite, the comparison seemed fair. "Man, it's about show time. I need some food, 'cause I ain't playing without any." Ikkaku was the type of guy who could be bleeding from his eye sockets and missing a limb, yet still manage a way to play a pretty sick rendition of Metallica's 'Enter Sandman.' However, so caught up in his own Yumichika-centered thoughts, he'd somehow not eaten all day. The fact that Ikkaku's mouth was like a black hole that sucked up all food indiscriminately spoke volumes for the severity of his crush.

Nevertheless, Ikkaku metabolism was fast and sometimes as dangerous as sales-crazed mobs of shoppers on Black Friday, all ready to fight tooth and nail for the last discounted X-box. With his constant exertion of energy, he had to eat every couple of hours. Without eating, his blood pressure would plummet. So when he said he wouldn't go on, he wasn't being some primadonna who refused to perform without a dressing room stock piled with San Pellegrino and gourmet chocolate. No. He was being quite literal.

"Why would ya' wait till fifteen minutes before the show to bring this up?" Ichigo practically hissed. "You're going to have to tough it out, we don't have time."

Ikkaku leaned a flat palm against the exposed brick of a wall and rubbed at his eyes until some of the blurriness went away. Despite it being quite cold, all of his muscles were glistening with the sticky juices of his sweat glands. Picking up his shirt to wipe off the excess, he grunted, "Can't play if your drummer's knocked out."

Annoyance morphed into concern at his friend's weary state. "Dude, I didn't think it was that bad. You're pretty much always hungry." Ichigo rubbed the back of his head in contemplation and looked around the room as if something edible would just magically materialize somewhere. "Umm… we'll figure out something."

"I have something," Ishida offered, walking over to his bag. He pulled out a white crumpled-up bag that was semi translucent with grease stains caused by his left over Mexican food from earlier that day, and handed it over to Ikkaku, who barely mumbled out a 'thank you' before he was on the fajitas like a lion to a gazelle. The only sounds that came from him were satisfied grumbles.

"Can you at least chew?" Ishida bitched with an air of disgust.

Ichigo placed his capo on the headstock of his guitar before jumping up with a comical smirk. "Yeah, humans didn't survive the chaotic cosmic journey of evolution for you not to use your teeth."

Pushing Ikkaku in the shoulder, who was attempting to shove an entire fajita into his food hole in the same manner a snake would unhinge its jaw and devour small rodents, Renji tried to grab the bag. "Give me one, you got three." At Ikkaku's territorial and almost primitive stare-down, he recoiled slightly. It was a cannibalistic type of look that promised retribution in the form of blood and flesh if he so much as breathed in his food's direction. A finger for a fajita. "Hey, hey… don't look at me like that!"

Noticing Ikkaku eating with all the grace and hand-mouth coordination of a dizzy toddler, Rukia thought Renji could make a whole extra meal out of the remnants his vacuum of a stomach didn't manage to suction up. "Messing with a wild animal and their meal is a way to lose a hand," Rukia warned tauntingly.

"Don't worry, we'll say good things at the funeral, write a song for ya' and everything," Ichigo taunted in suit.

"All he wanted was a fajita. What a brave and foolish soul."

"Sounds like a hit single to me."

"Come on, what happened to 'bros are thicker than blood?'" Hearing the oddly-modified expression, Ishida went to reply, but idled his patronizing correction at Renji bastardizing the old proverb, not feeling up for dishing out a lesson on twelfth century German aphorisms. "I'm hungry too! I need something to keep my energy up for the show."

With a momentarily vacant mouth, Ikkaku wiped his lips with the back of his palm. "You're just the Rhythm guitarist, that ain't so hard. Now go get me something to wash this food down with, will ya'?"

"Alright, right after I eat that damn fajita," Renji asserted while practically head-diving towards Ikkaku, wrestling for the food.

"It'll be the last meal you eat!"

"At least I'll die full, and whatta' you know about Rhythm guitar or how hard it is anyway? You just bang on shit with sticks!"

While the two fought it out as if this was some low-budget reimagined version of _The Hunger Games_ , Ishida turned away from the roughhousing to see Rukia and Ichigo rather uninterested with the whole scene. Ichigo was looking through his pockets for something, his eyes growing more concerned with each unsuccessful pat down.

"Ugh, fuck me," Ichigo moaned. "I forgot the set-list."

"I know," Uryu sighed. "That's why I picked it up and put it in my case along with some extra strings you were supposed to bring along."

Perking up, Rukia pondered, "You don't happen to have some bass strings in that magical bag of yours?"

"Yeah, I do." Standing from where he sat finishing up Renji's vest, Uryu noted in disapproval, "You're all like unprepared children. I can't comprehend how any of you make it without round-the-clock supervision."

"Because you're like the band mother, Uryu," Orihime chirped, jumping up and holding the vest at arm's length to expect her workmanship proudly.

"Please don't say that."

"It's true. You feed them, you patch up their clothes, you remember important things they don't - that sounds pretty mother-like to me."

As Renji, who was still trying to release the headlock containing him, yelled, "Uryu, tell Ikkaku to share this damn food with me," the reality of the comparison became heavy in his gut.

"Yes, and they're ungrateful, like children," he responded.

Renji stood victoriously, holding half a fajita in hand as a compromise of their cease-fire. He got some food and he didn't lose a single finger. He considered that a success. "Ah, don't say that bud. We all love ya'."

"Yeah, you're the best band mom."

"Totally, we love the shit out of you, four eyes."

At the rest of the band affirming the sentiments in their own specially quirky and bordering-on-insulting ways, Uryu shied slightly at the mawkish attention. "I tolerate all of you."

Rukia had recruited Orihime to help her apply the scarcely-used burgundy lipstick that had sat abandoned and forgotten in the bottom of Rukia's bag. With the guys trading in their frumpy hole-ridden attire for something that didn't house mysterious week-old stains or cannon-sized wrinkles, the bass player felt she too could put in a little primping. Ichigo looked as if he'd actually ironed his clothes, or more likely his sisters or Uryu had done so, but the fact that he'd even cared to ask spoke volumes. Rubbing some lipstick off her teeth, Rukia jumped off the table top she was perched upon before self-consciously tugging at the high rise denim shorts that left little to the imagination and her flow off-the-shoulder top that was as red as she'd be after playing half-naked in this abnormally cold April night.

As Rukia thought of all the life decisions that had gotten her to this point, standing here in such an outfit, and what kind of identity crisis she must have been having when she'd picked something so less reserved than usual, Orihime ran her fingers through the her hair and shook it softly in attempts to add what she called volume. Rukia didn't understand her beauty-shop lingo, but allowed it. Noticing her chill bumps and reddening nose, Orihime quickly turned to pillage the gentleman's belongings. She returned with a leather jacket and a black beanie, not knowing nor caring who they belonged to as she handed them over to the girl. She made a comment about how girls had to look out for each other and that the newly poached items would keep her warm while still matching her outfit. For a self-pitying moment, Rukia thought about how she wished she could introduce her brother to all of her new friends, share in the experience with him, but she filed away that thought under delusional and dragged in straight to the trash bin.

Picking up her bass, Rukia announced, "It's about time, guys."

As they walked onto the stage to complete their final preparations, Ikkaku was saying something about how he'd never done his lucky dance while Renji checked his reflection once more in the brass of Ikkaku's drums. They were greeted by the roar of steadily-inclining chatter and a congregation of late twenty somethings. As Ichigo gauged the crowd, which was rather large, he noted the breed of people the bar brought in. Men with handlebar mustaches were hand-rolling their organic cigarettes with the artistry and craftsmanship of Pablo Picasso, only instead of paint, their fingers were stained with an unsightly nicotine-hued yellow. Amongst them were similar variations of the same strain, such as electric cigarette suckers decked in ironic t-shirts and tweed jackets or men dressed like lumberjack catalogue models rocking beards thick enough to house small woodland creatures.

Seeing most were holding beers, it occurred to Ichigo that most people were here for the half off domestics and not to listen to _them_ , making him wonder if the audience would enjoy their music. Their music was good, really good, but the patrons of Satellite held a mixed reputation, partially for being unjustly hubristic. They were the types of assholes that would pontificate to each other, trying to one-up their friends in a clown show of whose music taste was more obscure or who had the quirkiest most offbeat hobbies, like yarn-spinning or making aboriginal experimental garage beats with only trash cans and wooden spoons. Truly a shit show. The types so out of touch with the world around them that they thought themselves some morally superior social justice warrior just because they shopped at Whole Foods and reblogged politically correct articles on Tumblr, patting themselves on the back for being _so_ enlightened. Fueled with a neurotic need to prove their paramount aestheticism, they'd criticize anything they deemed unworthy with generic prerecorded responses they kept on deck when the moment presented itself. Most of the cliché commentary was like getting a two-for-one special on obnoxiously trite hipster catchphrases, like when they'd say 'they're actually not that good live' or 'they're okay, but (insert indie band no ones' heard of here) does this better.' Not only were they successfully putting you down, but they were also differentiating themselves as the music elitist they thought themselves to be. The poor bastards almost couldn't help it, as if critical remarks were a language that had been hardwired into them and they were just robots, beer-guzzling malfunctioning robots sputtering the same one-liner over and over.

Of course, not all hope was lost. Many of the show goers seemed to be in that 'I'm out school and a real-live grown-up now, but I still don't really have a handle on this shit yet' age frame, around their mid-twenties to early thirties. Perhaps they'd matured beyond such a self-important perspective. On the other hand, perhaps they had just become stuck in their pseudo-intellectual haughty ways. One thing they'd have going for them was their utterly irrelevant status within the music world, considering self-proclaimed hipsters liked to collect newly-discovered underground music the way some people collected coins or trading cards, able to brandish it against a fellow collector and battle it out for some fleeting moment of supremacy as if they were playing Yu-Gi-Oh with musical acts. If all else failed, alcohol could make the wails of a tone-deaf chain-smoker sound pleasant, or more accurately, it could complete diminish a person's standards, make them more agreeable.

Checking all the ins and outs, making sure his mic worked, checking the sound, etc., etc., the whole pre-show routine was the most dreaded part for Ichigo. His hands were sweating more than the fat roll of a sumo wrestler, probably jiggling like one also. For reasons unknown to him, the beam of stage lights and a sea of judging eyes were always a great stimulus to his nerves, maybe because he never had been one for being center stage, as ironic as that might appear. It was similar to someone with a phobia of planes being a flight attendant, but despite it making no sense, as soon as he started playing, all of those blinding bulbs and sloshed-over mildly disinterested faces became no more than the gentle buzz of static. He entered a world where all that mattered was the music they were making - all of them, together - because if he was honest with himself, that's what this was all about.

Being famous, making money, living the tragically glamorized life of a rolling-stone rockstar who always consummated their evening with a different girl and a different bottle of Patrón, those were never the reasons behind his dedication. He could play his whole life and never make a cent from it and that be more than enough, because it wasn't about what he could get out of his talent, but what his talent _gave_ him. There was a world of difference. He loved it in a way that someone might love a person without any rhyme or reason; it just pulled on him. For that reason, career-making or not, he would always play and that would be enough. Despite his introspective and bordering on introverted nature, despite the fact that he could often come off as aloof and would never express it with words, this right here, what he had with his makeshift family, that was the real stuff of memories. These would be the days he looked back on with the sweetest of nostalgia. No glory could ever surpass that.

Renji, who had been setting up beside Ichigo, nudged the lead singer in the side and gave him that goofy grin that Ichigo knew signaled trouble. It was an impish yet dopy grin that promised humiliation. "So," he paused, if for nothing more than for dramatic effect, or perhaps to just annoy Ichigo, "you saw Professor Kuchiki today?"

Tugging on his guitar strap in frustration, trying to adjust it just right, Ichigo gave a passive scowl to his bandmate before returning his anger back to his uncooperative strap. "Yeah. In class. You were there too, ya' know, or did you fall asleep again?"

Renji rubbed at his neck as he thought back to something with a somewhat nervous laugh. "Yeah right, last time I did that he made me give the class a five minute explanation on what I was doing the night before that I couldn't go to sleep at an appropriate time."

Ichigo chuckled at the memory of one of Kuchiki's more cruel punishments. Renji's face had lit up brighter than the entirety of their downtown area, abundant it was with night life. Overall the whole display had been rather comical; the professor had even managed a smirk. Perhaps he'd burnt his coffee or had just been feeling a little more sadistic that day than usual. The man took enjoyment in contriving the perfect punishment for lackluster pupils, each crafted slightly different to target the weak spot of the particular student. In Renji's case, Kuchiki could tell that he had an overall abashed temperament, so he made him give an improvised monologue. Surely he'd enjoyed every gawky, ineloquent, humiliating second of the show, all three hundred of them. Though Ichigo thought that Kuchiki's over-the-top mortification style of discipline came from a place of care, located in a deep, deep chasm of which no man dare go, he also wondered if the man truly did just derive pleasure from making others feel inferior. Either way, whether it was right or wrong, Ichigo always found himself smiling helplessly at thoughts of the man. Maybe that made him fucking insane, having such a crush for someone who donned themself in a suit of ice - Prada ice, of course - but come on, even Hitler had had a women crazy enough to marry him.

"Anyway," Renji continued, wiggling an eyebrow at Ichigo that the man didn't take well to. It wiggled with all of its implications and annoying nosiness. "I was just wondering, ya' know, if you're ever going to ask him out? You were staring pretty hard today."

With all the baseless resurgence of an indignant child, Ichigo's comeback did nothing to help his case. "Was not! Besides, why are you talking about this right _now_?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Renji said, "Seemed as good a time as any."

Ichigo couldn't help but to think that was _such_ Renji-logic. They were moments away from performing, but hey, let's talk about your non-existent love life and completely mental infatuation you have on our professor. Ichigo couldn't think of a _worse_ time. Hell, he could storm in the bathroom while he was showering or jacking off or what have you, and it'd still be a better time than this. With a grunt, Ichigo muttered, "Yeah, after the semester's over. I don't want to have to see him every day after he rejects me."

Renji frowned at that. "Why do you think he'll reject you?"

"I can just tell he's not interested. I mean, he doesn't seem like a very sociable person. You don't have to know the guy well to see that. But it's not like I know him that well anyway, not enough to get worked up about it."

The frown deepened with urgency, which in turn, deepened Ichigo's annoyance. "So?! You aren't either!" Renji waved his arms madly, as if flailing at him would make Ichigo see reason. "You hate people, he hates people. You have plenty in common."

Ichigo scoffed. "You can't build a relationship on mutual hate alone." Running his fingers through his gel-tousled hair, he pulled up those famous impenetrable Kurosaki walls - complete with an alligator-riddled moat and all - trying to act as if he couldn't care less how the whole thing played out. "I mean, when I think about it, I really don't know the guy that well or really at all. Eh, I'll probably get over it when the semester ends."

Kurosaki's walls were damn near transparent sometime. Seriously, they were made of glass, that or years of knowing the romantically-stunted man acted as special x-ray vision glasses. All of Ichigo's romantic endeavors ended more or less in disappointment, not to mention Ichigo had a major 'I lost my parents' complex, pretty much making it difficult to get close to anyone. Accomplishing functional friendships was already akin to walking over a bed of lit coals, so being in a romantic relationships would be like asking the man to go swimming with starved sharks: potentially painful and gut-wrenchingly terrifying. Still, Ichigo was never the type to back down. He scowled in the face of danger and kicked his fear right in the fucking ass.

"Ichigo! Don't say that. Besides, do ya' think you're special or something?" Renji, basically spitting, asked.

At the glare thrown his way, Renji continued, "I'm just saying, that's pretty normal. Yeah, sometimes you're friends with someone and then you grow to like them, but just as often, people develop crushed on acquaintances. And there is a reason! Within the first couple of minutes of meeting a person, your brain decides subconsciously if you'll be attracted to them. It's got a lot to do with pheromones and shit."

' _Oh god, not this first-year psych-student bullshit'.'_

Ichigo's face said it all, but that didn't deter Renji. "It's got to do with personality too, 'cuz if you just like Kuchiki 'cuz he's good-looking, you'd been over it by now. You may not know a lot about him, but whatcha' do know, you like a lot. That's enough to give it a chance. You'll never know if you don't try."

The stubborn Ichigo knew his friend was right. Still, he was less than willing to verbalize it. His eyes spun like tires trying to run over the validity of the words, a sign to Renji that he had indeed won. "Yeah, yeah. I'll think about it closer to the end of the semester. Now can you stop trying to live vicariously through my love life and get your own?"

Those words were all Renji needed. Shoving his friend playfully, he began to return to his section. "I'm not, I'm just tired of seeing you look like a lovesick puppy. That's all."

Ichigo just scoffed before turning to the band. "You guy's ready?" With a nod of agreement from everyone, the show was ready to begin.

Time to rock and roll.

 **xXx**

The meticulously restored barn house was a Shangri-La for the pretentious and music-lovers alike. The bar had a penchant for booking local bands, always of different variety, and while some came to enjoy the music, this was truly a brilliant marketing strategy on the owner's part. From the no-name bands, to the funky modernized decor constructed of dumpster finds, to the oh so urban exposed brick walls, to the fire pits surrounding the perimeter of the bar, the establishment was the promised land for the more pompous population of this coastal college town. It was truly just ten thousand self-inflated drunks floating on an island. They waited in a not so patient manner for the day they could bitch about the woes of 'normal' people that they so valiantly put up with and how poor they were as they bought an eight-dollar craft beer. It just drew in the types that fumed(space)- completely uneducated on the subject - about the catastrophic perils of GMOs or said widely stuck-up thing's like 'Franz Kafka isn't worth reading unless it's in the original German'. Hell, by the looks of it, the bar had a strict dress code that required everyone to be dressed in homeless chic or colonial American fashions. With such a culture of pseudo-intellect and grandiloquent running as rampant as STDs and DWIs in the college town, it was a quite the smart gimmick to play off of.

It was that constant flow of snore-worthy and uppity rhetoric that caused Byakuya to choose this bar over others. It certainly wasn't because he liked to socialize with these know-nothings. No. The pretentious tended to ignore the pretentious, sticking to their little niches like pack animals, hissing in judgment from across the room. It was an ecosystem of different cliques all existing in a mutual criticism towards each other, meaning no one bothered him unless it was with their envious looks. Byakuya was like a majestic lion amongst drunken antelopes, and people loved to throw him deathly glares. While he was just as arrogant, he was the well-educated, well-dressed, well-deserved arrogant. He couldn't care less what music people chose to listen to; he'd just be happy if his habitually apathetic students even knew who Kafka was, forget the original German, and he certainly didn't buy purposely beat-up clothes despite having enough money to do otherwise for the sake of a fad. He was the alpha arrogant. He had broken the unspoken dictums that all of the 'nonconformists' conformed to, and everyone just knew that he knew he was better. They would be right, but that superiority had nothing to do with the clothes people wore or the shitty music they listened to. It was a judgment based on the fact that these vacuous morons actually thought that these were things that were important in life and ostracized anyone who didn't assimilate to such fecklessness. He judged people off of their intelligence, honor, and empathy.

Nevertheless, this was the best of the worst. His other options for drinking establishments included: Eighteen-and-up clubs filled with Michael Bay watching bros decked out in 'Tap Out' wear as if it was a uniform that would let everyone know they were douche bags if it wasn't clear by their inappropriately wandering hands or the fact their conversation reservoir was as shallow as a kiddy pool, only consisting of such _riveting_ topics as 'hot chicks,' drinking, and video games. Just as promising, his other option was art gallery bars that only sold wine and liked to mix amateur drum circles with alcohol-induced lack of inhibitions. If it had been up to him, he'd go to no bars, yet here he was, waiting, playing pool by himself.

"You're actually playing pool against yourself?" Back arched and chest hovering just over the table, Byakuya took his shot before letting his deep-rooted, aloof glare met the new arrival.

"I'm the only worthy opponent. Besides, what would you have had me do to keep myself entertained?"

Yoruichi walked over and dropped her bag and coat on the pool table, carelessly blocking the trajectory of Byakuya's next shot. "Oh, I don't know, socialize?"

Byakuya huffed, trying to recall if Yoruichi had always had the manners of an abandoned child who'd sought refuge in the company of feral cats, and how they maintained a semblance of a friendship with being such polar opposites. "Why would I want to do something like that?"

Sitting on the edge of the pool table, Yoruichi swung her legs back and forth like a giddy sugar-hyped child. "Ya' know, this reminds me of the night Kisuke realized you guys would be great friends, Bya-boo."

Byakuya spun his whiskey slightly with his glove-clad hand before taking a swig. "I don't recall ever experiencing such a night or a realization."

Yoruichi scoffed. "You also don't seem to remember you used to hang around us all the time back then. You were such good friends with Kisuke and Shinji, and you always acted so mature even though you were two years behind them both. You really don't remember Kisuke's party?"

"Which one?" Byakuya scoffed, remembering how those two would use any reason to throw a party. A on a test, party. D on a test, party. A hot sale at the liquor store, party. Urahara walked outside and saw his shadow first thing, party. Basically life had been a party for those two pranksters when they were younger and they'd just been dancing through. Well, more like crawling on their hands and knees through until they'd found a toilet to ladle out the liquor stew that had been boiling in their stomachs. Till this day, Byakuya still couldn't drink Captain Morgan's spiced rum without hearing the bitter anthem of liver failure and dehydration being retched into every available drain in Urahara's house. Those two fools may be staying with the Captain, but it surely wasn't staying with them. It sounded a lot like the sweet melodies of being right, since Byakuya would lecture them on the importance of drinking water with their copious alcohol consumption. He'd continue to lecture them the morning after while fixing his splayed-out friends some breakfast to soak up some of the rowdy house party of conflicting alcoholic beverages fighting it out in their stomach. It turned out, beer and hard liquor don't like each other very much, and always duked it out on sight whenever they entered the same gut. Of course, this was never a point of conflict for Byakuya's old friends, for he'd always end up in the same position, purposely banging pots and pans, playing loud music, and opening all of the curtains at the crack of dawn as he babysat the two, naturally inclined to take care of his friends while still making sure they reaped the full consequences of their poor decision making.

"The party they had near the beginning of your sophomore year. You remember, the one with the bet?"

An oddly nostalgic smirk lit up Byakuya's face, if only for a moment. "Ah, yes. How could I forget reminding someone of their intellectual inferiority?" It was more like, how could he not remember. Making others feel inferior was a Byakuya trademark, to the point it could be considered his normal way of greeting someone. For instance, if someone said 'Hello, how are you? I'm doing good myself,' Byakuya's typical response would be 'I _look_ good, but I _do_ well' before promptly marching away, muttering something under his breath about how people needed to learn the difference between an adjective and an adverb.

The night Yoruichi was talking about so fondly was one of Urahara and Shinji's many impromptu jubilees. He recalled it was to celebrate Shinji's acceptance into his chosen college or perhaps it was just to celebrate the newest Terminator movie coming out. It didn't matter. These festivities often had an open door policy, where the only invitation you needed to gallivant freely in the two's hedonic wonderland was your own bottle or a good word from Alexander Hamilton. Though, as the open door trade policy had failed with the U.S. government, it also failed with their wild house parties. Aside from knowing the fire marshals on a first name basis, such hospitality drew in one third of the uptown white-collar students from their private school for the filthy rich and privileged, most of which would cut up lines of illicit drugs with their daddy's gold card or zoom through the school parking lot with a new sports car every couple of months because they kept wrecking their last ones, reckless spoiled children who knew the faces of their maids more than their own parents, acting out in hopes that their families would stop throwing money at their problems instead of affection. If it weren't so tragically cliché, it would almost be sad.

Byakuya had always been a different breed despite having a similar pedigree to the rest of his classmates. His grandfather had taught him a love for business, politics, and personal integrity. His father, though often cold, taught him the importance of hard work and earning his own way. His mother had exceeded the expectation of most high society women who tried to hide their mimosa addiction with pungent perfume and spent the better part of their weeks ruthlessly gossiping at the local country club. The gentle woman had embarked a zealousness for nature and music that had stuck with him his whole life, also passing down her passion for being environmentally conscious to him. For the students of his school - where being careless and narcissistic seemed to be inscribed into their DNA - he was some kind of mutant, like there had been a permeant alteration to his genome that made him so aberrant from his other classmates. Being introspective, overly studious, or just treating life all too seriously was the equivalent of developing telekinesis or superhuman strength. People were intimidated by what they could not understand, and to them, understanding the man's behavior was like fully grasping the concept of Schrödinger's Cat: almost migraine-inducing. Byakuya, so handsome and well endowed, looking as if he was destined for popularity by the aligning stars, traded out late night raves for late night studying, preferred reading by himself to vacuous social interactions with fake people, cared about politics and social issues compared to being popular or who was renting out a condo for spring break.

He'd say that they ostracized him, but it was quite the opposite. It pained the man that his peers could have all of the opportunities their parents' money could buy and would gamble it all in a high-risk game of attention-seeking. It was atrocious how they'd gauged people's significance on whether they had a trust fund or what kind of car they drove, like personal connections were accessories to be traded out when they were out of fashion. It baffled him how small their worlds could be when it was spinning in the palm of their grubby foolhardy hands. It was easy to feel entitled when you worked for so little. Either way, because of their differences, many took Byakuya to be snooty or odd, even batting theirs eyes at him with their mocking pity. 'That poor thing,' they'd say, 'think of all he could have been. He doesn't' know what he's missing, alcohol poisoning, meaningless friendships, or a lawyer constantly on retainer; it's the American dream.'

For this reason, he went to parties in the same manner some people went to church: only on holidays or social gatherings, usually out of guilt or obligation. However, as he found a friendship in Urahara and Shinji, and even more so when he started seriously seeing Hisana, he'd grin and bear it more often … well, scowl and bear it. In his younger days, he had actually enjoyed his time with his friends, seeing as finding individuals he related to was like finding a river in the Sahara Desert. Even so, he'd always enjoyed the company of his instruments over others, for they did not drain him nor talk him into a boredom-induced coma, nor did they threaten to fight him, as one boastful man so mistakenly had done on the evening in question.

On one hot summer night, ping pong balls were being thrown into cups of beers and the furniture was being danced on. It was the end of the school year and the relief of such a respite was like a full moon for all local students, making everyone more untamed than usual. Like sheltered children finally stepping into the freedom of adulthood, everyone splurged as if they hadn't done this exact same routine the weekend before. The only true difference was that they could get wasted without the knowledge of an incomplete assignment weighing on their minds. Byakuya had been playing pool with one of his very sparse friends, and for whatever reason, he'd not been in Hisana's company that night. At some point, a young woman came up to him and tried to engage him in conversation, or from his perspective, desperate woman in particular had as much integrity as a condemned building and spent the better part of ten minutes trying to seduce the man with her ceaseless coquetry.

Apparently, the girl had a boyfriend or some man who thought himself her owner, because she was soon grabbed harshly by the elbow and pulled away, only to be replaced by five feet and ten inches of pure overcompensating inferiority complex. Audaciousness and alcohol were always such a perilous combination, promising bouts of testosterone-filled fighting. The young man invaded his space, each rambling insult covered in the stench of tequila, giving him the usual spill about how Byakuya thought he was so much better than everyone. The raven-haired man deadpanned something perfectly caustic, only egging on the other's combative display. This led to the man trying to goad him into a quarrel, insisting that if he won, he'd let Byakuya _have_ his girl. How absolutely archaic, as if the women was a ribbon representing their superior masculinity. The whole concept reminded him of the antiquated marriage tradition of earning a women's hand by giving her father a hefty pig.

Nevertheless, though he had no desire for the women, he did indulge in the occasional opportunity to remind a person that they were less important than their ego caused them to believe. Seeing as he found fighting without just cause barbaric and just plain dishonorable, he was able to outsmart the man and redirect his challenge to a game of pool. Along with convincing him, winning the challenge was complete child's play. Only, when the time came for him to collect his prize, he simply said, 'I would highly suggest not associating with men who bid you out as a mere object,' before leaving the party with no other words.

Yoruichi smiled brilliantly at the memory. "You were actually pretty cool back then, what happened?"

"About fifteen years and less patience happened," Byakuya reasoned.

"You make yourself sound like a bitter old man, Byakuya."

Leaning against the pool table slightly, he tended to his whiskey, rolling his eyes at the comparison that was more fitting that he'd like to admit. "Running the risk of sounding eager, I must ask, are you not supposed to have a friend with you?"

A flash of confusion filled the women before remembrance found her, and as if some benevolent force heard his inward plea, she said, "Oh yeah, forgot to mention, she called me not to long ago to cancel. Something came up last minute."

With an erected eyebrow, the man gave the most patronizing sigh of disappointment possible. The baritone of his voice sounding as if it was perfectly crafted for dealing out sharp-tongued mockery. "How unfortunate."

Yoruichi scoffed at the artificial disappointment. "Yeah, you must be _sooo_ devastated."

Like a gunslinger of derisive comebacks, Byakuya retorted bitingly quicker than Billy the Kid could draw a pistol. It was a talent, really. "Heartbroken, actually."

That one actually caused Yoruichi to release something that remembered a snort mixed with a cough, as if she was choking on Byakuya's bullshit. "I'm sure you'll find a way to survive. There's always another time."

"Unlikely. Flakiness is not a quality I find endearing."

"Oh, that such a cop-out," Yoruichi insisted, "and not even a good one. Even my students who don't do their classwork come up with better excuses than that."

"I wouldn't need excuses if you did not meddle so intently. You knew I didn't want to go out with her tonight, but you didn't take no for an answer, as usual. It's maddening."

The women smirked playfully at her long-time friend. "I thought you enjoyed persistence."

Byakuya bit his lip to hold back the mildly amused smirk boiling over. "I also enjoy silence and privacy."

Putting her hand on her chest, she careened her head in exaggeration. "How dare I try to help you find someone who you could possibly build a relationship with? Opening up that icy heart of yours would be _completely_ repulsive."

"I'm glad we can agree," Byakuya said, chasing down his annoyance with the burning sensation of liquor. At the netted brows of chagrin met his view, Byakuya added, "There's nothing wrong with not wanting to be in a relationship. I aspire to different things."

"Yeah, and maybe if I didn't know you so well, I'd accept that answer. You're not staying out of relationships for any healthy reason, but because you're stuck in the past and refuse to let all of that go. People break up, Byakuya, and then they move on. It's the normal flow of things. Letting one bad relationship ruin all possible ones you can have in the future is giving an awful lot of power to one person."

Byakuya let out a huff that suppressed his trepidation with as much combustibility as a bubble. "You have this knack for under-simplifying complicated matters."

"I admit," Yoruichi sighed, "the relationship between you two was more complicated than most, but that's exactly why I never said anything for the longest time. It's been _years_. Look, I liked Hisa- _her_." She caught the name in her mouth and let it die there, as if the women was Voldemort and the notoriety of her transgressions made her name ineffable, piercing to the ears.

With knuckles coiled, Byakuya pressed them into the wood of the pool table until they were white. "I'm not a child. If you say her name I will not explode."

Yoruichi crossed her arms in an almost challenging fashion. "Fine, Hisana then. Anyway, my point is, you're not here. You're still stuck out there with her somewhere and you don't even know _where_ that somewhere is. That makes you nothing but lost, Byakuya." Shaking her head in a concerned disappointment, she asserted, "She's the reason you quit playing."

Sharpened eyes glared at the woman, his usual leveled voice taunted in rebuttal. "She is _not_ the reason I quit playing."

Yoruichi looked more than unconvinced. "Yeah right."

Byakuya shook his head slightly as if it would rid him of these frazzled emotions. Very few people could make him emote more than his usual stoicism, for even when he was passionately enraged, he always hid it tactfully. Yet this topic had always been one that ran his emotions through a strainer, testing them to their limits. "Not that it's any of your business, but I quit playing completely of my own volition. It became all-consuming. Instead of following the path my grandfather wanted to one day become the dean of students at the college that our family founded, I put the majority of my time and effort into honing a skill for nothing, only to have my career slip through my fingers. It was childish."

In a conscious effort to not hit Byakuya like a piñata until all of his stupid fell on the floor like vibrantly-wrapped pieces of candy, the woman let out a tactless groan, pinching the bridge of her nose as if it was alleviate her chafed nerves. "You didn't lose it, she _stole_ it from you. When are you ever going to understand that?"

"Whether you believe it or not is no concern of mine. I made a conscious decision to stop playing and I can only blame myself for the events that led up to it. I will not keep explaining myself."

Yoruichi jumped off the pool table only to anchor one hand on her hips and point the other in an accusatory fashion. "Oh, don't you get all mister authoritative on me, _kid_. I'm practically your big sister, so don't think I won't still kick your ass or that I can't. One of your best qualities has always been that you knew yourself. You always knew your own shit, your limits, faults, even if you didn't always do something to change them. You don't have to date anyone or play, but at least be honest about why." Her stance slacked a little and her tirade became tepid, dampening with a softer concern. "I don't understand why you have to carry it all on your shoulders. Honestly, it makes me sad to see you like that."

These were the moments Byakuya Kuchiki had to face that he wasn't the complete heartless dictator everyone took him as, that even he took himself as, because when his childhood friend's usual feisty demeanor mellowed with an authentic worrisome on his behalf, he found his own heart would not allow his usual detached response. Byakuya sighed and the waves of irritation calmed into his usual flat seriousness. "Everyone is always so sure that it was just her, but how can they be so certain? We were busy, drained, and perhaps I did something that drove her away. Maybe I didn't pay her enough attention and I couldn't see what was right in front of my face." These were his true thoughts, a truth of which he only ever mulled over internally. In some ways, he was relieved to give those fretful thoughts life, yet expressing them to someone else neither confirmed them nor negated them. The truth of what ended his and Hisana's relationship lied somewhere in-between his own denial and the explanation she'd never given him. Sometimes, closure was like a far-away galaxy, unreachable.

She frowned at that slightly, a thoughtful surrender glazing over her golden orbs. "Maybe you didn't, kid. I don't know." She shrugged one shoulder. " All I know is that there's a right way to end things and there's a wrong way. Her way was wrong."

"I agree." Byakuya bowed his head slightly, apprehensive in faulting Hisana at all. Being such the martyr he was, it felt unnatural.

In a dramatic fashion that fit the woman well, Yoruichi threw up her arms. "We actually agree on something, and they say miracles never happen."

Now racking balls, Byakuya rolled his eyes as he simultaneously rolled the eight ball into place. "Yes, truly miraculous."

Giving more attention to her cuticles than Byakuya, she said offhandedly, "Maybe next we can actually get you on a date. Baby steps."

Byakuya scoffed. "I haven't felt an attraction for any woman in ages."

At the - what Byakuya considered - straightforward statement, Yoruichi stopped her preening and glared pensively into the crevices of her nailbed. When she looked up at the man, he could see the building blocks of something mischievous forming in the diabolic mind of his friend. "Oh, Byakuya, I always knew you liked guys too, maybe even preferred them, but maybe I underestimated that preference." Perking an eyebrow at the man, she tapped her chin in a hokey contemplation. "Maybe you're not attracted to any women because you're actually gay."

Byakuya didn't stop his task to address her. "Don't be so ridiculous, I was married to a woman."

"Because a gay man has _neverrrrrr_ married a women before realizing his true desires." Yoruichi put her hands in the pockets of her three quarter length jacket - one of which Byakuya thought looked as if it came from the costume department of the Matrix - and gave him a scrutinizing stare down. She looked at him as if she was trying to figure out just what made him tick, baring into the entrails of his every peculiarity. She glared analytically and suspiciously, like a detective hoping just the interrogation of their intense gaze would force out some sort of confession.

"What are you implying?"

Then, as if all the clues had finally fit, she lit up, ready to shine the harsh blinding light of her truth on the man. She ambled over to him like a bloodhound getting closer and closer to its prey. "Just that you may be a little more attracted to guys and a lot less attracted to girls than you let on, that's all." After all that, this cat woman had the nerve to be coy. Damn that woman.

Byakuya was unmoved by the woman trying to step into gumshoes and easily deflected her inquiry. "I believe you've been spending too much time around your lover. You're picking up his penchant for outlandish theories."

Yoruichi recognized fully when the man was trying to dodge the subject, which only furthered her convictions that there was something to _be_ dodged. It was a big ol' game of 'don't look at the man behind the curtain,' but Yoruichi had her own tactics at getting behind that drapery of dismissal. "Do you want to know what other Urahara-party this reminds me of?"

"No," Byakuya sighed, "but I'm sure you will tell me anyway."

"Hm, you remember, the one during the time you and Hisana had broken up for a little while?"

Byakuya visibly tensed at that, his eyes and attention jolting in remembrance. Yes, when Byakuya was unbreakable, his own pride was like a sledge hammer to a glass house. Of course he remembered. It was his senior year and Hisana had broken up with him in a fit of anger. There was no real reason behind it and till this day, he still had no clue what had upset the usually breezy woman to that point, yet that wouldn't be the last time she'd leave him completely clueless.

"… When you and that Tsukishima guy hooked up." She smiled triumphantly at an abashed red finding its way to Byakuya's cheeks. It was like a long lost sister returning home once more, for the man had used to be so easily humiliate as a boy, but now nothing could ruffle those confident and seasoned Kuchiki feathers, nothing but the recognition of one steamy experimental spring where his girlfriend had not been the only thing he had lost, but also his backdoor virginity.

Swallowing down a lump of seething embarrassment, he only netted his brow at the woman's now bubble-headed laughter. "How do you know that?"

"You used to tell me things, Byakuya." She caught her breath only minutely, her mouth gaping like a fish on dry land as she dabbed away the liquid forming in her tear ducts. "Oh god, and I remember overhearing you on the phone when you called Juushiro and Shunsui the next day to ask their advice." Yoruichi put on her best seventeen-year-old Byakuya impression. "'Is it supposed to still hurt?" Her breathing and words were once again stifled monetarily by uproarious laughter. At least, Byakuya thought, while she was choking on her audible response, she couldn't assault him with shameful memories. "Ah, classic…" the woman rasped once she caught her breath.

Byakuya wasn't sure what was heating him up more, the embarrassment he felt or the whiskey he was trying to chase it with. His mother had first gotten him into music, starting him off with the piano. When he'd grown older and delved deeper into his infatuation, he'd often gone to a music shop located in his town. The owners, Juushiro and Shunsui, had became mentors to the aspiring musician, teaching him all they knew. It was also no secret that the two were lovers, as they became like his two gay uncles that were way cooler than his family. There had been periods he'd spent more time there than in his own home. That's where he'd met Urahara and Shinji. Urahara wasn't really a musician, but had this habit of dissecting things and putting them back together, just for the sake of knowing how they worked. Shinji, who was a musician, had asked him to reconstruct a guitar for him out of some different parts he had found, not knowing he had created a monster. Though he did not play, Urahara had took to sporting for broken instruments and spare parts through garage sells or local shops and creating something better than the original, though it sometimes had bordered on absurd, if not absolutely dangerous. Urahara had been one sleepless coffee-crazed night away from birthing some sort of guitar-flamethrower hybrid. "I honestly can't believe I told you something so personal. I truly was more foolish than I remember."

Now standing beside the man, she nudged him affectionately with her elbow. They really were like siblings in that way, a punch or a shove was just a nonverbal 'I love you.' "Oh, I'm just messing with you. You shouldn't act so ashamed. You were just a little tyke, figuring out the answers of his own sexuality. Coming of age, if you will. It would have been dumb for you not to take that opportunity to find some answers."

"Coming from the woman who knows no shame." Byakuya scoffed, lifting the rim of his glass to his lips.

Throwing an arm around the man, she took the glass from an unaware Byakuya. "And look how happy I am."

Nose crinkling in disgust, Byakuya said, "I do not want whatever germs that you and Kisuke have been swapping back and forth."

As if to mock his repulsion, she stuck her tongue out at him at the same time the clamorous pounding of drums vibrated the boards beneath their feet. Walking over to the railing of Satellite's second floor, she leaned over. "I forgot there's music playing tonight. It sounds like the stage is under us."

It looked as if Byakuya had been saved from facing the music by the music. For now, he wouldn't have to deflect any more questions about the status of his sexuality. In the undeniable honesty of his own head, he knew it was a question he himself had been asking for a long time. True, he had always been attracted to men, but he'd loved Hisana dearly. However, the more his attraction grew to the same sex, the more he wondered if what gave their relationship a sexual aspect at all was such a close bond, because as time had gone on and the bond had weakened, when they'd make love, it felt, in some way, incomplete. Their's had never been a relationship with all too much physical passion, but just a comforting, all-encompassing warmth. When he thought of the prospect of never being with another man, it toyed at some unidentifiable part of himself that just made the idea seem wrong, as if he was sacrificing a fundamental part of himself. However, it was a part he'd been willing to sacrifice because of how much he'd loved Hisana. She was his partner in crime, in music, in life, his best friend. It had felt like a fair trade. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder if she'd left because she'd seen things that he hadn't, or had just bluntly refused to.

Now back at Byakuya's side, Yoruichi swung her head back and forth in a rhythmic fashion, bouncing on her heels. "I love this song," she said over the music. "The drummer killed that intro."

Now that Byakuya listened closer, he realized this was a cover of The Arctic Monkeys _Brianstorm. "_ Hm, this is one of their older and better songs."

"God, you sound like such a pretentious asshole." The woman leaned her head back in humorous disbelief while still swaying to the music. "What are you going to say next, 'I only like their old stuff, before they sold out?'"

"You forget, Yoruichi, music was my career. It's a very common occurrence for bands to change their sound to fit the current trends." He leaned into the women's bouncing ear so he wouldn't have to do something as uncouth as yelling. God forbid. "It all marketing. The Arctic Monkeys changed their sound and sexualized their music to target a teenage girl audience. It's not pretentious, it's just fact."

"Either way, it's still a good cover." She spun around, baltering to the fast beat electric rock ballad.

"I do like their lead singer's voice. It's deeper and has some grit." Pursing his lips contemplatively, he concluded with an air of distaste, "With indie becoming the new pop music, the genre has been overflown with annoying falsettos."

Interlocking an arm around Byakuya's elbow, Yoruichi jested, "The worst thing to happen to music since auto tune. Let's go downstairs and listen, besides, it's about time you bought me a drink anyway."

Byakuya let himself be dragged towards the stairs when a roar of applause filled the rafters and a somewhat familiar voice followed. ' _Thank you, we're 'The Strange Cynosure_. _'_

Both he and Yoruichi stopped their movements mid step and threw each other a puzzled glare. "Strange cynosure," Yoruichi said, "Isn't that the name of one of your songs?"

"Yes," the man answered, shaking off the confused look. "It's not a commonly used phrase, but I suppose much stranger things have happened."

Now back on track, Yoruichi urged, "Well let's go, now I really want to see them."

 **xXx**

Being pulled through a smoky sea of infused offensive odors- tobacco, beer, and herbs, if Yankee Candle had a 'college-party' scent, this would be it- Melrose ooh'd and aah'd in bright-eyed wonderment as they walked through the parking lot, the sound of sonorous drums vibrating through their chest.

Wafting away the odious vapors burning his senses, Yumichika pulled on the excitable and, in Yumichika's opinion, overly-eager man as if he was a child who kept pointing at different toys in a department store. In ways, he was certainly playing the part, overtly pointing and gawking in an uncivilized manner. He looked at everything as if it was a spectacle, as if he was discovering some unknown aboriginal civilization and was in massive culture shock.

"It is horribly unattractive to stare and point, Melrose. Were you raised by wolves?"

Melrose went from mindlessly ogling a fire-spinner with arms covered in body paint to looking at Yumichika. "I'm not use to being at a bar where everyone has on so many clothes," the man jested, taking another good look at the plenitude of fire pits surrounding the perimeter. "However, I see it's just as flaming."

At the jayus, Yumichika stifled a laugh with his free hand. "You're dreadfully corny. Anyway, the alcohol is still overpriced, the people are just as obnoxious, and," he smirked hubristically, "the music is still just as wonderful, so there's nothing so spectacular to be pointing and gapping over."

Interlacing his arm with Yumichika, he strutted beside him as if the two were the best of friends. "And you're," Melrose attempted what he considered to be a snotty British accent, " _dreadfully_ arrogant. Although, I do agree, your music is great."

Yumichika scoffed as they entered into the mouth of the barn house bar. "I've heard you singing Backstreet Boys before. You have a Van Gogh's ear for music."

"They're classic boy band magic and I just so happen to have a very eclectic taste," Melrose argued. Smirking playfully, he eyeballed the man's outfit, "Besides, if I have a Van Gogh's ear for music, you have a Ray Charles' eye for fashion."

"This is one my favorite outfits," snapped Yumichika, affronted, "Fhh, you obviously have no sense of beauty or aesthetics."

Brimming with happiness at the man's worked-up reaction, Melrose pulled him along with a placating compliment. "Of course I do, I'm spending time with you, am I not? Now hurry up, this band sounds good and I want to get closer."

"They do sound good. I've heard Ichigo is a fine musician, but I've never heard his music until tonight."

"Ichigo?" Melrose tilted his head, "as in Kurosaki?" It did not dawn on Melrose that in this coastal American town, there was probably only one Ichigo.

"Oh, you two know each other?" Yumichika asked.

"You've heard of seven degrees of Kevin Bacon, right?" Melrose asked with a flip of the hand. "It's really three degrees of Barbra Streisand in the gay world, very small community."

"I believe it's more so because everyone sleeps with everyone," Yumichika rolled his eyes.

"Speak for yourself," Melrose said before reconsidering. "Well, I guess I have had my overly sybaritic moments, but anyway, Ichigo use to date a friend of mine, Jeremy. I met him a couple of times. Bless the boy's heart, but Jeremy is a complete ken doll at times. Pretty, but not too much upstairs. I knew from the moment I met Ichigo that those two would not last. He's much too smart and snarky, and Jeremy is a bit slow on the uptake. Good musician though." Putting his hand up to cover his mouth, despite it being absolutely unnecessary, like the gay mafia's gang sign of gossip, Melrose blabbered, "You know he was a special breed too, because Jeremy told me he would never put out."

Ladies and gentleman of varying ranges of the sexual spectrum, let me inform you, there is an absolutely horrid tried and true joke that most gay men have heard or said themselves at some point when they were feeling especially catty. This joke goes as such: 'Where does a gay man go on a second date? What second date?!' There is also an equally as distasteful bromide for lesbians, but I'll leave that for another day. Of course, it's terribly as stereotypical as it is cliché. However, most in the gay community will tell you with brutal honesty, that like my stereotypes, this started with a nugget of truth. Gay men are still men, and like most men, the impulse to spread their seed like an overzealous horticulturist comes from a deep visceral place. This was only made more apparent by apps like 'Grindr' that acted like a take-out menu for fine gay man booty. Of course, this was also socially driven, for hookup culture had spread like an airborne toxic event through all facets of human sexuality, but like most popular and trendy things, the gays did it first.

Again, like most stereotypes, this was not the case for everyone. There were plenty of variants like Ichigo, though, depending on which inner circle you aligned yourself with, these individuals could be looked on like social aberrances, rebels, little trailblazers paving a way out of the usual mold.

"A dying breed," Yumichika poised. "Good for him." Of course, Yumichika was also a part of that breed, but he knew his and Ichigo's reasons were probably as contrasting as north and south.

Now moving towards the back of the establishment, Melrose saw a flicker of orange hair over the hoard. This was met the words ' _Thank you, we're_ ' _The Strange Cynosure'_ , only to be followed up by a separate voice, a very Renji voice, _'Give it up for the best drummer in the east coast, Ikkaku.'_

Yumichika and Melrose looked at each other, blinking in confusion. After a moment of looking for the answer in each other's puzzled eyes, it finally clicked. "Oh, you have to be kidding me," Yumichika pinched the bridge of his nose. " _This_ is the band he was talking about!" Making a gesture as if he was saying 'what the fuck' to the universe, Yumichika said, "Why have I've been so unlucky today?" First his mom, then Ikkaku, _twice_ , not to mention his tag-along. What kind of cosmic bullshit had declared today the day of grand inconvenience for Yumichika?

Ready to turn right back around, Yumichika was now the one being dragged by the wrist. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Um, getting closer to our future boyfriends, of course," Melrose pulled, a new bubbly eagerness behind his gallop.

"Excuse me? One, I don't have boyfriends, and two, that lollipop rejected you, or did you forget?"

"Did not!" Melrose chided, squeezing the man's wrist tighter just in case he tried to wiggle free. "He neither rejected me nor accepted me, and if he's trying to deny he liked me, it's much harder to do if I'm around."

With a head shake of distaste, Yumichika said, "Or he simply doesn't like you."

"Ha, you're hilarious, Yumi. Come, come."

"I changed my mind," Yumichika swiped his wrist away, "I don't want to see him."

Swiveling on his feet, Melrose turned to give Yumichika an almost parental glare. "If you didn't like him, you wouldn't care either way. You wouldn't let any random stop you from doing what you wanted. Now stop being so foolish and just let things happen naturally."

"Perhaps I just don't want him getting the wrong impression. He has been pursuing me and I don't want him to think I'm somehow here for him."

That's when Melrose brought out his secret weapon: his atomic bomb of persuading. Frowning in such a forlorn manner, the man batted his crystal sea green eyes. "Yumiiiiii." He stomped his foot, whining, Yumichika just stood, arms crossed, throwing the man a look that asked him if he really thought such lowly tactics would work on him. "Please, Yumichika, this is like destiny. Plus," he put on an extremely coy voice, dipping his head and racking his foot back and forward. Yumichika had to bite back a laugh, because one thing the barkeep was not was shy. "You really shouldn't be that way. Ikkaku's really nice. So what if you don't date him, you don't have to avoid him. You could just be his friend."

Yumichika hated that, for whatever reason, Melrose was able to make him feel guilty. He _never_ felt guilty. Melrose realized his eyelashes were batting one hundred as a look of begrudging resignation fell over the beauty's face. "Fine," he sighed, obviously not thrilled.

Before he could change his mind and make a sprint for the door, Melrose grabbed his dainty wrist and pulled the man towards the stage. "This is going to be good, really good. I can feel it."

 **xXx**

 **Sachiko Heiwajima: Thanks for your comment, love! Yeah, they have a pretty intense history. You learn more about it slowly over the story. Good vibes ~ Ashes.**

 **Guest: I love comments like this! Fan girl writers eat this stuff up. lol. I'm glade the pacing is good. Though I love a little Yaoi smut myself, it just seems more real when it happens if you don't rush it. I like to use those scenes as moments of tension. Thank you for your support! It helps a lot. Good Vibes ~ Ashes.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thanks for the Fav/follows. Pleaseee give me some reviews. I know this story is slow moving, but the slower the pace, the better the development.**

 **Good vibes ~ Ashes**

 **xXx**

" **I wanna hurry home to you,**

 **put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up.**

 **So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain.**

 **God, I'm very, very frightening, I'll overdo it."**

 **\- The Nationals.**

 **Bring Down The House**

Ikkaku stared down at a set of bongo's with a rancorous distaste. A fortnight ago, Ichigo plopped the instrument down in front of him and told him to learn it for this next song they were doing. Truth be told, Ikkaku loved playing percussions as a general rule, so he had nothing against learning a new way to do it. But, come on, Ikkaku just wasn't a bongo's type guy. In fact, anytime he imagined anyone playing the bongos, they had waist length dreads and were clenching a joint in between their teeth, swaying. Ikkaku did not sway, dammit. Not now, not ever. He danced, he pounded on drums, but the energetic zealot of a man did not sway around like a delicate flower in the wind. None the less, he conceded and took to the surprisingly difficult task of learning. All the technical stuff was pretty much the same, but it was the using his hands instead of sticks that became the biggest issue to surmount, for the man knew not his own strength sometimes. Well, actually, he knew his own strength rather well, he just didn't know the pressure threshold that the not to sturdy canvas coverings could take, and he ended up almost ripping through the instrument in an embarrassing failure of a first attempt. If he wasn't such a determined guy and if the mental image wouldn't be mind shatteringly grotesque, he'd tell Ichigo just where he could shove said bongos.

"Why are we doing two covers back to back?" Ikkaku asked, positioning the bongos on a stand.

"Because, we want to pull in more audience attention before we start playing songs they don't know," Ichigo explained while tuning his guitar. Ikkaku just grunted in confirmation and continued to set up. For a moment, Ichigo's eye's glanced over the crowd, but what he saw had him doing a double take. Perhaps this was a mirage, he had been feeling somewhat dehydrated today. Debunking that idea, he thought that perhaps his love drunk brain had finally driven him mad, and he was only seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe he'd fallen asleep before the show and this was just a really realistic dream about to be broached by the sound of an alarm clock or Ikkaku waking him with a flying drum stick to the head. Yet, after a few more mind boggling moments of being caught in some twilight zone, blinking rapidly like he was having an epileptic seizure, and contemplating if he should pinch himself, he realized that, yes, he was staring at professor Kuchiki. Professor Kuchiki standing beside professor Shihouin, none the less. After his brain troubleshooted it's self, he realized that it was moronic of him to be so puzzled. Professor Kuchiki was just a human after all, despite all proof pointing to him being a vampire or some kind of reptilian-siren hybrid only posing as human, sustaining his life force by absorbing the resolve of ill adept students. Still, the idea of the holier than thou man stepping from his thrown to mingle with the mere mortals of the world, breathing in their b.o scented air, listening to their music, drinking their sub standard alcohol, it was akin to the second coming or sighting Jay-z ordering a soy latte at your local coffee shop. It was almost like those 'their just like us' articles they put in celebrity tabulates to make people feel as if they can relate to Johnny Deep just because he washes his own laundry too. However, much like the celebrities, in Ichigo's eyes anyway, he was nothing like them. The price of the building and everyone in it depreciated when Byakuya swaggered in, decked out in a tailored J. Crew blazer situated over his royal purple cashmere sweater, matched perfectly for highlighting the finer parts of that demigod build he was rocking.

It was not lost on Ichigo that he was likely being unfair, making assumptions much like the ones Byakuya made of him. He was standing there after all, in the company of one of the most eccentric professors the university had to offer. It was true, they really didn't know each other at all, just the perceptions they had of each other. Yet, Ichigo wanted to know him, and more so, he wanted to be wrong, to be given the chance for Byakuya to surprise him. Still, despite fully recognizing the logical fallacies running his thought process a muck and that Byakuya was in no way better than anyone else - even if his ass looked as if it was the muse behind all Greek sculptures constructed from the Hellenistic era - he still felt such an overwhelming sensation of nervousness, a need to challenge himself, to prove himself. Perhaps it was because that, even if Byakuya was no better than anyone else to the universe, he was better to Ichigo. Maybe that's what made him so different from the other men Ichigo found himself considering as romantic candidates. While they often stayed stagnate, the professor felt like something to aspire to. Not that he wanted to be like Byakuya, but more so, he wanted to be a better self because of Byakuya.

While this might technically be considered a good feeling he was having, the blooming seeds of love if you will, it felt like ridding the tilt-ta-whirl after eating two whole funnel cakes and a jumbo slushy. It felt like what Renji would look like after he would foolishly take on a keg stands, only to pull an Exorcist and projectile vomit all over the bathroom: absolutely dreadful. Just the sight of Byakuya Kuchik was a steroid injection for stage fright. He was burning up, and not it the good way. His hands were jittering like a caffeine addict's and gravity had seized to exist, but only within the confines of his abdomen. Most troubling, his thoracic diaphragm - his unseen yet most important instrument - was about as stable as a mental breakdown. Trying to extract oxygen for his now faulty singing apparatus would surely result in his voice cracking. It was no different than having a broken string on his guitar, only a broken string was manageable, replaceable.

Rubbing at his nape in an almost unconscious show of anxiety, Ichigo turned to the band while trying not the wear his apprehension so blatantly on his face. "Uh- maybe we should do another song," Ichigo advised, his eye's waffling back and forth between the other band members. "Maybe it's- um- it's too sexual."

In Ichigo's defense, Crash Into Me was explicitly sexual for those who's minds had been jaundiced by the experience of adulthood. However, it was rather metaphorical. Still, you didn't need a masters degree in literature or to be lyrical genius to device the true meaning of Dave's bluesy verse _'you come crash into me and I come into you. I come into you In a boys dream.'_

Uryu glared dubiously at Ichigo's odd reasoning. "For who, a twelve year old?"

"I-well-what I mean is, um.."

"One of the top charting albums in this country was a Beyonce CD that was pretyyyy much all about her love for sex." Rukia rolled her eyes, "I don't think anyone here will mind."

Truth be told, Ichigo wasn't sure singing was much of an option because his voice seemed to have left the building, possibly the whole state. Yet, at the prospects of singing a song with such sexual undertones, his voice was peddle to the mettle flooring it. You'd have better luck coaxing out a disgruntle angsty teenage girl from her bedroom than getting this bad boy to come out. Still he had to at least try. He'd just have to go up there and sink or sing. As they say in preforming, the show must go on. It was the cardinal rule of preforming and any full flesh musician was expected to comply if they wanted respect as performer. Let's put it this way, Ichigo had once gone to a concert where the lead singer, who was incidentally recovering from a hip injury, did a not too thought through helicopter kick of an amp. After landing back down on the floor, like the trooper he was, he finished the rest of the song flat out in agonizing pain, dazed from pain killers. It was pretty metal. What kind of unimaginable loser would he be if he couldn't sing because he saw his _crush?_ When did he revert back to a quivering child playing guitar at his elementary school's talent show? Such spineless cold feet could only be remedied by stepping down as the leader of the band, for he wouldn't deserve such a title.

"Y-yeah true," was all that he could say, or more aptly, all he could squeak. Grasping at the mic stand, Ichigo's drenched hand slipped and sent him stumbling right into Renji. _'What the hell is wrong with me? I need to get it together,'_ Ichigo chided him self as Renji gave him a perplexed yet concerned look.

"Dude, what's gotten into you? You look sick," Renji asked, looking at the flushed man before letting his gaze wan over the crowd. Ichigo didn't know what Renji was looking at, but when he saw his friend's grin that was like the harbinger that warned of the commencement of shit - eating that was about to occur, he could take a wild guess. "Ohhh," Renji said before snickering into his clenched fist. Ichigo rolled his eyes because he knew what was coming. Renji and himself had know each other so long, they could finish each others insults. Though, Renji's taunts were rather predictable. Ichigo was starting to find him akin to a dried up comedian who needed new material.

' _At least that pineapple didn't go saying it out loud like-'_

"Hey guys," Renji continued in his nasally snickers as he looked over his shoulder. "Ichigo's got the jitters because his boyfriends here.'

' _I GIVE THIS BONEHEAD TOO MUCH CREDIT!'_ Forgoing his usual unwavering denial, Ichigo sputtered angrily, almost as if threatening the man. "Wait till it happens to you!"

"Ah, gettin' nervous around people he likes is Renji's thing," Ikkaku said. "He's giving you crap cuz' misery loves company."

"Wait," Rukia butted in, "I'm confused. Ichigo has a boyfriend?"

"He wishes he had a boyfriend," Renji smirked right at the death beams Ichigo was sending his way.

Craning her head back in exasperation, she groaned, "Grow up, Ichigooo."

"Me?" He pointed incredulously towards his spiked haired bandmate. "What about this loser?"

Looking at Renji then back to Ichigo, Rukia said, "I don't bother with lost causes."

"Don't worry, bud," Renji slapped the man on the back, "maybe if you sing really good, Professor Kuchiki will ask you out."

"YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON PROFESSOR KUCHIKI? PROFESSOR KUCHIKI IS HERE?" Ruck began jumping on her tip toes like a fanatical fan girl hosting herself over a crowd to get just one glance at her favorite boy band heart throb.

"Well, I mean," Ichigo stuttered, embarrassed from feeling as on display as an oddly poised mannequin in a shop window. _'Seriously, let's just put up a damn billboard and tell everyone!'_ "I guess, but do we have to talk about this here? Why do you care anyway?!"

"It would be quite the band drama if you were also infatuated by the professor," Uryu added dryly.

Rukia made the look of repugnancy one made when they sniff check their milk to find it sour and curdled. "Gross!"

' _That's…not the reaction I expected..'_ Ichigo thought.

While Rukia was mumbling something about how she was going to be sick, Uryu glanced into the crowd to see if they'd yet to notice the abnormally long interlude between songs. "Hey, I guess Yumichika came to check out the song. Now you definitely need to get it together, Kurosaki."

Jumping from his stool, Ikkaku asked, "Yumichika came?"

"So you do know Yumichika?" Ichigo asked.

Ignoring Ichigo's confusion, Ikkaku swaggered over to Renji and threw an arm over his shoulder. "Oi, and he's with Melrose," Ikkaku smirk at Renji who was now giving Ichigo a run for his money with his sputtering and flushing. Eying his friend, Ikkaku mocked, "Aye, why ya' blushing, Renji?"

Pushing Ikkaku off, Renji whined, "Shut it. I'm not blushing."

"Then that's some pretty make up you have on," the other jested.

"Woe, where did you guy's meet Yumichika and Melrose?" Ichigo, obviously confused, asked.

Both the men faltered, sharing a look and filling the drawn out silence with awkward 'um's' and 'ah's' as if they were remembering something from the distant past.

Uryu had been hoping the _children_ could work out their difference themselves without his intervening, but a large and drunk crowd like this would soon demand either music or blood. It wouldn't surprise him if antsy show goers started throwing beer bottles after too long. It looked like he'd once again have to step into his apron and sensible mom jeans if these guys were going to start playing anytime this month. "Stop messing around guys," Uryu snapped, earning the attention of the three love struck if not equally distracted band members. "Ichigo, you're the lead, act like it. Besides, the Ichigo I know wouldn't let some guy make him feel small. Instead of letting him get to you, use his presence as something that pushes you to do better. Show him how awesome and talented you really are, and that he's no better than you."

If at all possible, Ichigo blushed more while dipping his head humbly and racking his hair in-between his callused fingers. "Jeez, if it comes down to you lecturing me, I must be acting pretty lame." Looking back up, now filled with a new burst of resolve, Ichigo supplicated, "Sorry guys. I don't know what came over me." Though he hatted to admit it, he thought, ' _Ishida's right. I can't let Professor Kuchiki intimidate me like that. I'll show him that he's wrong about aways being so high and mighty.'_ He knew Byakuya recognized his talents, as the man had no problem telling him, but he always made Ichigo feel like a lazy degenerate. Always, the man intimidated those around him, keeping others at bay. Ichigo was the only student to dare broach that impenetrable wall of superiority. It was amusing really, shocking Byakuya, getting under his skin. It was odd simultaneously wanting to impress and one up someone. Perhaps it was because he actually did respect Byakuya, but unlike with his other students who seemed to avoid him like he was a traffic checkpoint on Labor Day weekend, Ichigo's respect was based in true admiration instead of fear. Yes. Ichigo wanted to show the man that they were equals, that he could match him. He wanted Byakuya to respect him in the same way he respected Byakuya. Sure, he had a better chance at winning the lottery or being on the cover of next months issue of Rolling Stone, but getting this right tonight, that was a start.

Now directing his fatherly leer at Renji, "And the same goes for whatever's got you all red in the face," Uryu said, as if just passing off hammy down advice from one child to the next. Renji just popped his gums and muttered something about how he had this.

Sighing, Uryu pushed up his glasses and said, "Now, can we begin or does anyone else need a pep talk?"

On Ikkaku's part, he wasn't as nervous as he was confused, really not understanding why Yumichika was there. Of course, this was only because of his lackluster listening skills. He just accounted it to luck. Rukia was pretty sure this was going to be her last night in the band, if not her last night on planet earth, so she just said fuck the nerves. She was going to play like it was the last time, because, well, it may well very be.

If that was the case, she was bringing down the house with her.

 **xXx**

Byakuya rarely expressed his emotions visibly, but right now he was like a pot of unattended water on a stove: boiling over. First and foremost, his sister had lied to him, right to his face none the less. He knew he'd passed on his distinguished ability to simultaneously control all of his facial muscles to Rukia, but he'd never thought such sly techniques would be implicated on himself. Even more so, that they'd work! Seeing as Byakuya was a man who could win a staring contest with a wall, he couldn't have foreseen such a blow. The student had truly surpassed the master in this situation, and if her cunning had been directed at anyone else, he'd probably be proud.

Furthermore, what the hell was she wearing? This was a free show, but not _that_ kind of free show. He felt like one of those 'I'm just going to die from humiliation' type parents who would embarrass their kid publicly, because all he wanted to do was run upstage with his sweater and demand she cover up before lecturing her about the dangers of contracting pneumonia.

Some greasy fellow standing beside him made a crude comment about Rukia and Byakuya made some comment bordering on illegal. As expected, he moved away from the danger zone that was Byakuya.

Though, Byakuya Kuchiki was above causing a scene. Unlike his feline like companion, he had a little shame and a lot of pride. No. He could wait. His vast well of patience ran as deep as the core of the earth. Yet also like the core, once you drained his patience, he was pure molten rock, burning anything that came within a mile radius of him. The surface of the sun hath not heat death like the soul sucking oculars of a Byakuya devoid of patience.

And let us not forget the big base playing elephant in the room. Rukia was breaching the terms of their agreement. An agreement that Byakuya thought was more than fair.

But if all of that wasn't enough to cause the phenomenon that was an overtly pissed off expression on Byakuya's face, there was also the fact that, that mop of unruly migraine inducing hair and wasted talent on legs was apparently the frontman for this little project of theirs. These hooligans were Rukia's friends? The wonder boy who only knew how to wear clothes two sizes too small, armed with the superpower of awe inspiring, persistently tenacious lateness and his trusty pineapple headed sidekick who's hair was the brightest thing about him.

Now, Byakuya wasn't like one of those parents who gushed with disbelief at their child's mischief and defensively exclaimed 'not _my_ child!' He wasn't like one of those parents playing hot potato with patriarchal guilt, trying to pass off blame to another child so they could live in denial of their lackluster child rearing. Rukia was plenty old enough and certainly intelligent enough to tell lies without the provocation of her friends, and she was much too independent to fall victim to something as weak willed as peer pressure. Plus, it's worth mentioning that he was in no way her parent. Still, your friends can play a huge factor on your behavior even on subconscious levels, and Byakuya did not want her picking up Kurosaki Ichigo's smugly indifferent attitude towards schooling. It was of no matter, because after tonight, this would be a null in void headache. Let her enjoy her fun for one more evening.

Seriously, it could have been anyone else, but the knowledge that it was that boy was like a cheese grater on his nerves. It irritated him to no end. Why? Why did just his presence feel akin to electroshock therapy? He knew why, but he was pretty sure he hated himself for the reason. It wasn't merely about how the boy reminded him of a much louder and impetuous version of his younger self. It wasn't just the fact Byakuya had been trying to keep away from any stimulus that magnetized unsolicited memories from his regretful antiquity. It was the boy's visceral skills that seemed to spew wildly like a geyser, making everything he wrote worthy of being in literatures magazines across the globe, that enticed him so heavily, and as a result, irritated him. He wrote with the lethal honesty of Sylvia Plath and the wittiness of Oscar Wilde, but what made him even more consequentially absorbing was how the damn kid didn't even have to try. He could probably sit spasmodically plastered at an all night dinner while charging equally as inebriated club goers three dollars to write them haiku's on a napkin, and it would still be light years above some of the fermented sewage these self proclaimed 'artist' were churning out these days. Prospects of exploring that type of mind was thrilling to a man like Byakuya. There was also this ethereal charisma about Ichigo, a charisma that was so.. warm, warm enough to boil Byakuya's blood with frustration.

And it was not lost on Byakuya how absolutely delirious he must be to find that bullhorn delivered speech, aloof temperament, and fanciful mind charming. He was one wayward thought away from committing himself to a padded room. This irritancy must be the logical, non committable part of his cerebrum rejecting the toxic infatuation.

Despite the fact more heat was rolling out of the professor than a steam engine, Yoruichi seemed too preoccupied with the people on stage to take notice. "Byakuya! I didn't know Rukia was in a band."

"That would make two of us," Byakuya said, letting out a sigh filled with controlled vexation.

Still not taking notice to Byakuya's battle of willpower - that he was sure he was losing - she waved his comment off and continued to appraise the musicians on stage. "Eh, don't worry about it. You know kids these days, they move so fast they don't even have time to tell themselves what's going on."

Pointing and gawking stupidly like an American tourist in any foreign land, she used a free arm to shake Byakuya enthusiastically. "I've taught all of those punks before, except for the keyboard player. I especially remember Ichigo," she smiled nostalgically.

' _Of course you do, and I'm sure you'll tell me all about it.'_ Byakuya inwardly complained.

"He took my ceramics class," she said, laughing boisterously as if remembering something gut wrenchingly hilarious. That or she ingested a whole bag of magic mushrooms or Xanax soaked gummy worms that one of these drug pumped misfits gave to her while Byakuya was lost in his brooding. As her laugh faded out, she said, "Ah...he was horrible. Just the worst. I mean, he'd be on the potter's wheel and somehow get clay on the wall BEHIND him." Shaking her head humorously, she added, "What a messy uncontrolled guy. He was a really cool student though, and he always did his work. Though, I could have done without the traffic he'd always have coming through the studio."

Dubiously rising an eyebrow, Byakuya repeated, "Traffic?"

"Mhhmh, It wasn't his fault though," she smirked impishly. "You know what they say, if you put out some honey, you're bound to catch flies. And let me tell ya', that kids the whole bee hive." Instead of correcting the woman by telling her the expression was actually 'you catch more flies with honey than vinegar,' he let her continue in her ramblings, trying to appear less interested than he was. Good thing Byakuya could take home the gold in an olympic event for fraudulent apathy. "With a butt that cute, of course he had all kinds of girls and guys dropping by to see him. He's a pretty laid back and friendly guy, even with that scowl. So I guess he's a big catch on campus."

' _Splendid, not only is my infatuation asinine, it's also pathetically typical,'_ was what Byakuya thought, but all he gave was an considering noise.

"We're pretty relaxed about allowing other students to come in the studio during individual studio hours, but I almost had to change the rule because of him!" She gave a short breathy laugh. "I think he would've been relieved if I did."

The women shoot him a suggestive look that Byakuya was none the wiser to. He'd somehow gotten the mental image of Ichigo's honey eye's that led to a malapropos flash of a scrumptiously honey drizzled Ichigo and made Byakuya wonder where the nice men in the white coats were and when they were coming to take him away. He was becoming a danger to himself.

"He's in one of your classes this semester, right?" the woman asked. "You know, I'm pretty sure he goes that way, plus he's a musician like you. Do you think he's cut-"

Not even letting the lynx finish her preposterous attempt at match making, Byakuya cut her off. "Ex musician, and how could you even insinuate that that novice is on par with I?"

"Testy, testy, Professor Kuchiki," the woman chuckled. "Now that you're done deflecting, wanna answer my question?"

"..I suppose.." Byakuya huffed, "..he's attractive. I never really took notice." Yes. Byakuya had eyes, and in a _completely_ objective way, he could admit that Ichigo could be considered attractive by some. Ya know, if you're into _that_ sort of thing. That I fell asleep wearing this, just rolled out of bed and ran my fingers through my hair type of scruffy lost pup look. However, Byakuya Kuchiki most certainly was not. Nope. No way. As if.

At the woman's gapped grin, Byakuya sighed inwardly. She treated everything he said as if it was some riddle to be understood or a secret map only to be deciphered by being flipped upside down, dapped with lemon juice, and ran through an ultraviolet light. Basically, she never took him at face value. "Oh Byakuya," she smirked, her body swaying theatrically, "you must really think he's attractive for you to even be admitting it a little. I mean, you must think he's _really_ good lookin' for you to not be openly insulting his looks."

' _Why does this damned woman know me so well?'_ he thought, weighing out the prospect of never seeing her again, something he decided and went back on every time he saw her. "Unlike you, I do not prey on my students. We're supposed to be educating them, not gauging the allure of their backsides."

"I am a happily spoken for woman," Yoruichi scoffed, "so I'm not prying on anyone. Besides, it's not as if he's a child, Byakuya. He's an adult capable of making his own decisions. Last time he visited the studio, he told me he was on his second to last semester of his undergraduate. So that puts him at about," she moved her pointer finger around, as if solving a math equation in her head, "twenty one. Not that big of a gape from twenty eight."

"I think we're old enough to realize that twenty one is not as adult as we may have thought in our younger days."

"Yeah, yeah," she rolled her eyes, "for those of us pushing thirty, I can see what you mean by twenty one still seeming green. A lot of growing happens in that decade. Butttt, the concept of an adult is relative, all based on personal experience. I know some twenty year olds who are more mature than some of the professors at the university."

"Yoruichi," Byakuya pointed out flatly, "you're thirty three. That's no longer pushing."

"How dare you tease a lady about her age!"

"You mean in the way you tease me about everything?" he smirked. Not letting her respond, he groused, "When will they start to play again?" He noticed Ichigo was fake tuning his guitar while having a conversation with his band mates. He seemed uneasy. It was one of those tricks of the trade used to buy time during disagreements or hang ups between sets. Only it was obvious to any other string playing musicians.

Yoruichi was giving the man an incredulous stare down. Not because she really was serious about trying to pair the two up, but because it _always_ came down to this repetitive bull shit. It was always the same. He wouldn't admit he found the young man attractive because said young man was a musician. Anything that involved that, he kept a safe distance, as if he could catch it like a virus. It absolutely frustrated the woman to see him lock himself inside of himself. The man was a recluse of his volition.

He treated music like it was a drug habit he was trying to kick and dumping all of his old friends was the same as deleting his drug dealer's numbers or straying away from the spots he once got his fix. Frankly, it was just a ridiculous way to live, and his excuses were getting old. She could see no good reason for him to cut himself off from the things that made up his crux. It was partial suicide.

Arms crossed and head tilted, Yoruichi said, "They miss you, ya know. Juushiro and Shuuhei, they wish you'd visit the shop. Urahara and Shinji too.."

Byakuya batted his eyes in a show of trepidation. What was he to say? He missed them also, but he made his bed along time ago and now he slept in it, no lullabies of his musically inclined friends to lull him to sleep. "I'm just..just too busy," he excused lamely.

Before she could point out just how lame that was, the requiem of the student constructed band finally began once more.

Ichigo's deep and gritty voice was laced with bluesy undertones as he sang out the suggestively metaphoric lyrics of the song. The funky acoustic beats clashed against an electronic track with heavy hip hop roots, making for an interesting collage of sounds and a rather sultry rendition whose effects were not lost on the professor.

Only, what really put the man on pins and needles and had him sweating as if he'd just eaten a ghost pepper whole, were the honey eye's that Byakuya was almost certain staring at him.

Having the lyrics ' _ **Sweet like candy to my soul. Sweet you rock and sweet you roll. Lost for you, I'm so lost for you'**_ sung directly at him was doing nothing for those mini spells of madness, causing all too graphic images to prance around his head that Byakuya would rather not being having publicly or ideally at all. Though, even with those eyes in his direction, it was almost as if he was staring through him with how absorbed Ichigo looked in his performing.

And when the words ' _ **Touch your lips just so I know. In your eyes, love, it glows so. I'm bare boned and crazy for you'**_ flicked off his tongue, Byakuya quite literally shuttered. Seriously, _he_ shuddered, but he merely blamed the cold rolling in from the wide open doors that surrounded most of the building. Nonetheless, he was feeling violated by each enunciated syllable and glide of the body.

"Um, I think he's staring at you, Byakuya."

"He is certainly not, perhaps he's staring at you," he rebutted.

Taking three leaping steps to the side, Yoruichi turned her deciding gaze back up towards the singer. "No. No. It's definitely you."

The man grumbled inwardly before finding the boy had finally peeled his eyes away and was directing them elsewhere. He truly was a sick man because he found himself almost wanting such an intrusive star to return. Almost. No. He wasn't that _unhinged._

Thus concluded five minutes of the most sexual tension Byakuya had felt in years, but of course, not without rubbing it in just a bit more when he ran his tongue between his slightly parted lips before singing ' _ **I'm the king of the castle. You're a dirty rascal, crash into me'**_

Perhaps it had been too long and his body was just telling him to take care of his _needs_ , because he could find no other reason his legs were melting like a snowflake on a child's tongue under the man's piercing gaze and melodic voice. No sane reason that is. He knew the boy was attractive, but he did _not_ want to partake in such intimate acts with this smug, memory inducing upstart. Especially not a student. At least one of his heads didn't, and that one was going to win out.

After that, they sung six originals songs. Try as he might to not be, Byakuya found himself captivated. Of course, it was _strictly_ professional. As an ex musician and a literature professor, It was only normal to want to gauge one of his students proficiency. _Right?_ Not that it surprised him, but Ichigo's lyrics were just as poetic and perfectly contrived as all of his papers, if not more so, and the song structures were complex without being overly convoluted, making for a sound unique to them. He wouldn't satisfy that arrogant brat with such praise, but it was still true nonetheless. Of course, his memorization had _absolutely_ zilch to do with the man's magnificent stage presence. It had nothing to do with how the habitually gawky bundle of hormones and cheeky comments seemed to transform into a natural born musician, making such fluid and confident movement as he lost himself in the soothing oasis of the moment, playing as if he'd marooned all other cares, as if he did this for him and him alone. Ichigo was an island.

It had nothing to do with his spirited guitar playing and the way each pluck of a string seemed to vibrate with a scintilla of his soul. The young man played as if he came out of the birth canal with a guitar in his already callused baby hands, like his first words were Gibson Les Paul. It _especially_ had nothing to do with how he looked unintentional beautiful when giving all of himself to the bittersweet addiction that was performing. Byakuya could tell, either it was a room full of people or just him playing by himself, it wouldn't change the way it grabbed hold of his every synapse. You see, for musicians like Ichigo, they didn't play because they wanted to, they played because they had to.

Still, it was for none of those reason his attention was held so fervently. Byakuya was _choosing_ to give his full attention because he wanted to find flaws and criticisms in the younger man, in hopes he could deflate some of that turgid laxness that so irritated him, or at least that was the badly glued together lie he tried to convince himself of. He reiterated it in his head like a mantra, thinking maybe if he said it enough, it would make it true.

They played their final song. It was another cover and one of Byakuya's favorites. 'Night On The Sun, by Modest Mouse. Fondly, he thought about how Ichigo had one of their t-shirts he'd wear regularly. It was slightly faded, a little snug, and had a barely noticeable hole near the stitching of the neck line. It looked like one of those shirts you keep around forever if only because it's known you longer than some of the people in your life. He could imagine Ichigo ten years from now, still wearing the same raggedy band tee. Something about that thought was about as comfortable as the shirt would be.

The last song made him uneasy. It was one his favorites, but that was probably why. It had been ages since he'd actively listened to music. Most of the time, his iPod would idly play and work as background noise while he would grade papers. Ichigo's voice gave the lyrics breath again. He gave the meaning of the song CPR and brought it back to life for the older man.

You see, for men like Ichigo and Byakuya, not only musicians, but connoisseurs and contortionist of literature and lyricism, they knew how music could just take you there. The destination undermined until it was revealed suddenly. Kind of like love, you could search for it everywhere, but it was something to only be know the moment you felt it. Men like them, men whose journey could be summed up by what they wrote on paper, knew that words were often either not enough or way too much. With the right combination of phrases, such deep emotion could be yielded. A song could make you remember feelings you had long forgotten. The right song could make you guilty towards the decisions you made or the ones that were made for you. A magnificent song could make you want for feelings you've lost or never had to start with. When Ichigo sung this song, it made him feel all of the above.

The young man's voice echoed through the space, seeming to be picked up by the brisk wind. Closing his eyes, the older man relented to their pull and allowed those zephyr driven words to take him where they may. It was the kind of song that sounded better at three a.m on a clock radio or with the slight static as it played on a late night talk show with a weak connection.

The song was about a man who lived in self induced solitude, letting his blood freeze over like the surface of a lake in December. He pushed all of his friends away and they pushed back.

When Ichigo sung the words ' _ **You're hopelessly hopeless. I hope so, for you'**_ he felt his loneliest ache like an old wound and when he sung ' _ **Freeze your blood and then stab it into me'**_ he felt a latent self reproach for being the one who placed himself in that prison of isolation.

The song ended and explosions of accolade ensued. The song ended but his reasons for detachment did not. Just as fugacious as the wind, so were the emotions he felt. Just as they expeditiously came, they expeditiously went.

 **xXx**

The audience romped. Hooting and hollering, letting out high pitch dog whistles, they jumped in the air with a beer bottle hoisted as if toasting the band. The house had officially been burnt to ashes. Ichigo was caught up in the euphoric afterglow of commingled perceptions flooding his senses. The crisp aroma of frosted air warmed by the torrid flames of bonfires, the sonority echoing from the stomps and applauds of the audience using their bodies as their own personal instruments, a sea of smiles and earnestly twisted faces, it was momentarily intoxicating as he rode out the sweltering apex of his sublimity. For the tanked tryst that was playing, this was his pillow talk. His soul was flying, lost in the rafters until he looked through the dazed muddled ambiance of those interweaved senses and his eyes met briefly with those metallic ones of Byakuya. Unintentionally, he smiled, finding himself happy to find those eyes looking back at his, as unreadable as they might've been.

That instant of time warping eye contact ended in a glower as Byakuya turned away, and his band mates rough housing caught his attention. Everyone was heading backstage, and Ichigo was about to join them when he noted Rukia giving a wistful if not apprehensive stare into the mess of an audience. What that glare met with, he had no clue.

Stopping beside the girl, Ichigo narrowed his eyebrows in concern. "Uh, you coming, Ruk'?"

After a moment of silence, he thought she was too gone to the riviera of her own thoughts to hear him, yet she finally looked up to him. There was an apology in those eyes he didn't quite understand. "Sorry, Ichigo. I have to go see my brother."

Rukia's brother? The one she fawned over and talked about with such a reverence that you'd think he held the entirety of their solar system on his shoulders. The mysterious, sword fighting, musically inept brother of the year whom generously let Rukia stay with him through college to escape the luxurious estate of their fathers, that Rukia explained to be more frightening and ghost filled than a haunted house. The man who redirected their fathers wrath away from Rukia like a living, breathing shield of protective light in their younger days. After all the stories, Ichigo couldn't deny his curiosity. Since Rukia chronicled the memoir's of growing up with her brother with the same aw that someone would express when telling the folklore of Paul Bunyan who's mere foot steps created Minnesota's 10,000 lakes. Yet this man wasn't a hero of fiction, but a real life warrior to Rukia. Knowing Rukia to be as outwardly as hard as a flint rock, yet with a heart as gooey and sweet as a marshmallow, Ichigo wondered about this man who played such a crucial role in her growth.

"Your brother?" Ichigo asked. "Your brothers here?" He looked down at her before redirecting his gaze back towards the crowd if only to look for Rukia's more manly counterpart standing amongst them. Before he could start chuckling at the not so right imagined images of a more rugged version of Rukia's features, the girl walked to the edge of the stage and jumped off. Of course, Ichigo followed. If he wasn't so lost in his inquisitiveness, then he might have noticed the nervous vapors emanating off of the girl like ice evaporating in the presence of the freshly risen sun.

For all of his intelligence and musical know how, Ichigo could sometimes be as dense as a black hole. As exemplified when the dots stayed disconnect even as he saw an approaching Byakuya looking rather peeved. He thought, rather deliriously so, that the professor was coming to greet him. Any other professor would if they saw him in public, but Byakuya was not any other professor. More imperatively, why did Byakuya seem openly upset? Why did he seem openly any emotion?! Admittedly, Ichigo saw a certain forlorn disposition when he found himself slyly stealing glimpses into Byakuya's slat grey eyes like a child trying to furtively peep at their crush from across the classroom. Though those emotion causing electronic signals never surfaced in any other features on the handsome and all to often still face. His conclusion drawing was like a game of connect four that he could not win, because even when Rukia halted her movements and stared in overt humbleness towards the approaching professor, Ichigo just couldn't imagine why.

While approaching, Bykauya was wishing Japanese culture was more akin to middle names because saying just a first and surname with chafed disappointment was not enough to embark the true intensity of his disenchantment at her lie. Was he that unreasonable? Perhaps if she just talked to him, they would have came to a solution or some sort of comprise that allowed her to do both. Surely, he knew that he gravely expressed the importance of not letting music over take her studies, but did she really think he'd be so unfair, that she wouldn't try to express the importance of this? Of course, Byakuya probably would've been stubborn and resistant, demanding strict limits on her involvement with this band, but Rukia hadn't even allowed him the chance. She decided what his reaction would be for him. If Rukia lied, that meant this was important, but it also meant that she really believed him to be that callous towards her wants. That nail dug the deepest, because even when he seemed draconian in his methods, it was always with her best intentions in mind. Maybe that had been arrogant of him, but that was a thought to mull over at a later time.

When the professor stopped in front of the pair, Ichigo greeted, "Hey profess-

"Rukia Kuchiki," Byakuya interrupted the incept greeting, yet the younger man seemed to taken by Byakuya's own greeting to really seem too miffed.

Giving a nervous chuckle, Rukia raised her hands in a question type formation. "Heh, would you believe me if I said this was all apart of a school project?"

"Would you believe me if I said your attempts to lighten to mood are somehow amusing right now?" Byakuya spat with more fire than Ichigo was use to.

Rukia dipped her head shamefully and interlocked her fingers in front of her tiny frame as if she was about to pray or more accurately, as if she was about to beg for her life. "I'm so sorry brother."

Ichigo's confusion was just stoking his hot headed tendencies. What the hell was happening right now? "Brother? Kuchiki? Rukia, why did you lie to me?" he demanded before this sibling stare off could advance any further.

"I'd like an answer to that also," Byakuya said, never looking away from Rukia even if he found the softness of Ichigo's orange locks tickling his peripherals rather distracting. He hadn't forgotten the indecent thought or lost any of that enthralled curiosity towards the younger man, but damn it if he couldn't ignore him. Ichigo was just a nuisance, a creak in the floor board of his mind that he couldn't fix, but he could ignore out of pure habitation. Ichigo was obnoxious, smug, hot headed, lazy, and a direct pathway to memories and desires that Byakuya wouldn't allow himself to dwell on.

Rukia looked up to her brother wearily, but decided to address Ichigo first. "I didn't lie. You never asked," Rukia justified, though even she knew it was a half baked excuse at best.

"Lies of omission are still lies! Especially with how much I talk about profes-" Lighting up like a house on fire, Ichigo clamped his mouth shut and inwardly kicked himself in the gonads at the little bit of truth he was so heedlessly about to spill. Though he was sure the gist of it was understood by Byakuya, as the man was now looking at him for the first time with a look that could make the devil himself bow down. Though what he didn't know was, Byakuya took his words as more of an insult than hints of romantic attraction, figuring Ichigo bitched to Rukia about him constantly.

Closing his eyes and pushing down a blush, Ichigo collected his thoughts into a question that wasn't so pathetically embarrassing. "Uh, why didn't you say anything?"

Rukia looked to her brother quickly, but bit her lip and turned her direction back to Ichigo. "I'm sorry, Ichigo. The thing is, Byakuya is my brother, my adoptive brother actually. He let's me stay with him, but under the condition that I always put school before music." Taking a deep sigh, she continued to lay her cards all out on the table as ruefully as a poker player laying down a bad hand after going all in. "I thought he wouldn't allow me to be apart of the band if he knew. I also thought that if I told you guys the situation, you wouldn't want me as your base player because my staying in the band wasn't a sure thing. Especially since you guys just lost one base player. Also." At this point, Renji and Uryu had walked up behind the group, but gauging the tense air around the three, they just stood listening. "I didn't want you to know I'm the deans daughter. Most people are put off when they realize I come from the prestige of the Kuchiki family."

"Wait?" Ichigo pointed at Byakuya, but kept his eyes on Rukia. "That means he's the deans son?"

"Not just the dean either," Uryu interjected, "Dean Kuchiki also owns the university. Well, the family does."

Ichigo's face widened in shock. He knew both Rukia and the professor came from well off families - if their always polished name brand attire implied anything - but not _that_ well off. He thought only people like Oprah Winfrey owned school.

"I suppose you'd know that if you were on the deans list like myself," Uryu teased with a nonchalant hubris in his voice.

"Hey bastard," Ichigo spat, almost pushing his forehead against the others. "I was on the deans list too! I just didn't open the envelope because I don't care about dumb rewards or boasting my grads like that!"

By this point, Byakuya's patience was about to reach it's celling. He wouldn't indulge this conversation anymore. "Rukia, come. We have things to speak of," he said, leaving no room for argument. Only he found himself almost visibly shocked when a soft grip stopped his retreat.

Ichigo seemed equally shocked when they both looked down to the lithe indurate fingers against Byakuya's wrist, and Ichigo jolted before backing away from the man like a child who unintentionally touched a hot stove. "Professor Kuchiki," he addressed, gripping his clenched fist to his side as if it was a reminder to keep his hands to himself. "I don't know why you stopped playing, and maybe it's none of my business, but I really think you should reconsider letting Rukia stay in the band." Ignoring the sharp eyes from both brother and sister, Ichigo continued, "She loves this, and the band really likes having her around. She keeps her grads up. I almost never see her without a text book in her hand. Just, I mean- I guess what I'm saying is: please don't take this away from her. It isn't fair."

At the passionate honey orbs imploring with Byakuya, burning so deeply until he felt the heat of their desperation, Byakuya found himself more angered. Angry at himself that he'd let those puppy dog eyes make him feel guilty, make him feel anything.

As if almost to fool Ichigo, Byakuya said rather softly, "You're right, Kurosaki Ichigo," only to add venom to his words when he went on. "It is none of your business." Yes, Byakuya was the lull and the storm, calmly signaling the onslaught of his deathly enchanting chaos. As the man turned to walk away, fully expecting Rukia to follow, Ichigo looked as if he was going to try again in his reasoning.

'Don't," Rukia snapped, looking towards Ichigo's eyes sullied with a tinge of hurt. "I can deal with this." Sighing, she mellowed only slightly, saying, "I'll see you at school."

As he watched brother and sister walk away, Ichigo couldn't help but to wear a scowl abnormally large for even himself. He wasn't sure what angered him more, the altercation or the way Byakuya addressed him. Seriously, what red blooded American called someone not only by their full name, but also using their surname first. Who?! Japanese American or not, culturally it was an overly formal manner of addressing someone, and Byakuya was the only person Ichigo had ever met who did that. Even more infuriating, Ichigo was the only person Byakuya ever did that too.

Furthermore, his feelings were at war with each other, brutally strong holding one another for dominance. He was infuriated that he could've harbored feelings for a man that could be so coldly calculating. He supposed that expression of diamonds wasn't just an atypically sever case of resting bitch face, but truly depicted the man he was. Hard on the outside; hard on the inside. Rukia loved playing and often talked about her brother teaching her. Knowing the way she felt about it, how could he take her from the band so phlegmatically? Did she not deserve to enjoy her life in her own way? Especially because her grades were perfect, what reason did he really have?

Then there was that other part of Ichigo. The part he wished would shut it's mouth for once and allowed pissed Ichigo to take the wheel and drive this infatuation right off a cliff. It was that part of him that really did want to know _what_ his reasoning was. It was his empathetic side that often got him into more trouble than not. How many school yard brawls did he get into just because he couldn't ever walk away from a person in need? How many times did he wonder to himself what made those same bullies such hateful individuals, that they could leave someone broken and bloodied? It was because Ichigo knew pain, and he knew how pain could alter a person drastically, almost to their core. From the moment of your great tragedy, you no longer see life through the eyes you did before, but from the twisted perception of goggles constructed of bitter heartache that went unhealed. Rukia had talked with such slender about her brother. His kindness, savvy, and integrity. His affinity for music that he shared with her. With that in mind, it became fairy obvious that Byakuya was more that a ruthless man, but a man with cracks in his internal pavements. Ones he'd never taken the time to cement over. Why did he stop playing? Why did he push that on Rukia? Now he was all the more intrigued and if it were possible, his fascination with the professor had only grown stronger.

However, after such a pleasant altercation, Ichigo was certain he'd lost both his base player and any chance he had - if there ever was one - with Byakuya in one fail swoop. If he believed in those sort've things, he would be sure this was karma coming in full reverse. After Jeremy, Ichigo also had been left with no base player nor a romantic interest, only this time, the big cosmic joke was on him. He'd been selfish with the Jeremy situation, so wasn't it almost poetic that the universe shelled out his punishment for such transgressions in the form of the one man who'd occupied his heart? In a fucked way, of course. This was the definition of situational irony, and Ichigo was sure this moment should be captured and printed in literature text books around the world as the apotheosis of the term. He supposed one hurt heart deemed another.

Amongst his brooding, a saucy fun loving voice greeted him. It was only then he noticed that Renji was still standing beside him. Uryu had probably gone with Ikkaku to pack away some of the equipment. To his left was Melrose smiling broadly at him. He smirked back at the handsome man. Melrose was such an easy and enjoyable person to talk to, that one couldn't help but be distracted momentarily. He was the type of guy who could make you forget your pain for just five minuets on the day of your fathers funeral.

"Yo Melrose," Ichigo greeted, nodding at the man with more zeal than most people would receive.

"Ichigo! I haven't seen you in forever." He patted the man on the shoulder briefly but appropriately. That was something else about Melrose, he was a rather personable guy. He always gave small touches here and there, but never in the way that would make someone feel awkward or asphyxiated by that god like sexual energy the man could exude if he so chose to. It could bring Rome to it's knees, that is, if Rome was the name of a cute gay guy Melrose had been cruising. "Though, to tell you the truth, I'm kind've glade. It's good to see you not with that potato with eye's."

"Is that how you talk about all of your friends?" Ichigo asked, though obviously in good humor.

Melrose gave a flippant twist of the wrist. "He's a bar friend. Meaning he's really just a good customer. You'd be surprise how easily I can pretend to like you if it mean's you'll leave me a good tip," he jested with a wink.

From beside him, he heard a stifled cough that sounded as if it was being choked on. Looking to Renji, who'd been weirdly quiet, he noticed the man looking around the room aimlessly, as if to avoid both of their gazes. More than that, his cheeks were redder than a baboons backside. _'I know that face..I know that face like I know my names Kurosaki Ichigo…I mean Ichigo Kurosaki. God damn it, now that bastards got me doing it too.'_

In a voice that was only slightly leading, Ichigo said, "Uh Renji, this is Melrose. You've two met, right?"

Answering for the man, unsure if he was doing it because he knew Renji sentence formation was probably on par with a three year old at the moment, or because he got his kicks from watching the adorable man get flustered, Melrose said _,_ limpidly letting implications be made in his tonality, _"_ Oh, I _know_ Renji."

Ichigo smirked harder and Renji blushed harder. "He-y Melrose," Renji stuttered, giving the most awkward wave of the hand that looked more like a tourette's tic than a socially accepted hand gesture.

Oh yeah, Ichigo smirked brilliantly now. "So, Renji, how do you know Melrose?"

Renji's blush had painted him into a corner. Ichigo was going to eat this up, as he should. Renji would have little respect for him as a fellow bro if he didn't take the opportunity to torment him properly and thoroughly. That didn't mean he was going to enjoy it however! Though, he found himself more worried about the physical pain he'd be receiving from Ikkaku if their little secret didn't stay in the closest. Pun completely intended.

To his surprise, Melrose swept in and saved him once more. "At the tattoo shop," the brunette said. "He came seeing if I could cover up them awful tattoos on his body." Renji's face shot up in shock, too relieved to care about the insult one way or another.

"Really?" Ichigo asked, looking less than convinced at Renji.

"We-ll, just a small part on my back. I was thinking about getting something else there," Renji fibbed. It was a lie, Ichigo knew it, but by the foxy wink Melrose threw him, he used a little social canny to pick up on the queue.

"Uh-huh," Ichigo snickered. "Well it's been cool talking to you Melrose. I'm going to help pack up some of the gear." Walking past the two, he turned to Melrose and said loud enough for Renji to barely hear, "He's fragile, don't scare him too much" before walking with a chuckle that was lost to the music playing overhead.

Wretchedly, the man turned his gaze back to Melrose, surprising himself with the sudden comfort he felt face to face with the man's soft warm smile. It was different and much less intimidating than the storm of sexual voracity that could wrap you up in it's cyclonic clutches and rip you to shreds. Especially for a sexual proselyte as Renji, whom had barely delved into what it meant to have heterosexual sex. Gay sex was a whole other universe, a whole other hole, a whole other set of rules that were basic axioms to a man of Melrose's prevailing experience. Perhaps he did want to dip his toes into the world of what it meant to be with another guy, but having Melrose be his swinging coach was like having to jump off the high bored on his first day. He wasn't even in the water yet, so he couldn't go diving it. He was scared, and in that regard, Melrose was scary. Still, he knew he liked him, and he thought Melrose might like him back. And if he did, then of course he would understand If Renji wasn't ready for all of what Melrose had to give. Some of it, but all of it might fill his lungs with the deathly avidity of Melrose intimate waters.

"So," Renji broke the silence with an only slightly more confident voice, "you work at a tattoo shop?" For whatever reason, his simple question earned a hugely authentic smile from the barkeep that made Renji turn into cherry flavored gelatin. _'This guys going to be the death of me.'_

"Well I give free labor to a tattoo shop," the man chuckled. "I'm an intern. That's what I do instead of school."

Renji raised an eyebrow at that. "You're not in school?"

Melrose shook his head, saying, "Schools not for every, yea? At least if you have other plans. You don't need a degree to be a tattoo artist in this state, just a couple of years of interning before you qualify for your certification."

"Tattoo artist, huh," Renji smiled, "so you're a good artist?"

Taking a slow controlled step forward, Melrose said, "I'm about as good as you are at guitar playing, cherry bomb."

Gripping his neck nervously, that blush resurfaced with a retribution. "Heh, well that could be a compliment or an insult," he mused, though knowing the statement had been meant to flatter.

"It's definitely a compliment. You're very talented," Melrose said, his long eye lashes fanning his lambent unblemished derma like tropical palm leaves.

"I guess I knew more about rock music than you gave me credit for," Renji attempted to tease.

"Well I was waiting for you to prove me wrong, silly," Melrose smiled affectionally, making Renji feel fluttery at the propensity of which the other could look at him so openly. "Renji," he asked coyly, "what are you doing tonight?"

"Uh, well- I," giving up on playing it cool, he said, "I'm probably just going to play Mario Cart with Ikkaku and drink some beer. We're roommates."

Looking over his shoulder to a very impatient looking Yumichika awaiting Melrose to return, the chestnut haired man snickered. "I think he's going to have different plans tonight, but I wouldn't mind standing in for him."

"You play video games?" Renji asked, looking somewhat shocked.

With more humor in his voice than sexual intent, Melrose joked, "Of course, gay men make it their business to know everything stick related. Even thumb sticks."

"Wait," Renji said, the smirk on his face betraying his serious voice. "You're use to handling ones _that_ small? I guess I didn't have too much to be worried about then."

It took a second, but Melrose let out a vociferous laugh, the chasm of his smile as deep as the Grand Cannon. To someone who didn't find Melrose absolutely enticing, it may have been an ugly laugh, an obnoxious one, but Renji found it spectacular in it's honesty. Once his fit of laughter stopped, he held out a hand. "Come on, Renji. I might even let you win."

"Remember those words when you're crying in defeat!" Renji exclaimed, though taking the hand none the less, sheepishly so.

The two walked past Yumichika who was giving Melrose the 'what the fuck' look. Not even stopping, Melrose pointed in the direction towards the stage and giggled, "Looks like you're going to have to find another way home, Yumi. I know a certain leather clad prince who's schedule is wide open." Yumichika looked off in the direction Melrose was pointing, seeing Ikkaku leaving the back stage area. He was glistening with sweat causing him to lift his shirt to simultaneously wipe his face and reveal his abs. He exchanged some words with Ichigo before jumping off the stage and sauntering towards him. Yumichika was about to turn around and bring Melrose within an inch of his life with a mere stare, but the man was already walking off, saying over his shoulder, "Don't worry, you can thank me latter."

Yumichika was thinking he'd thank him latter by writing his number on the bathroom stalls of their club.

By the time Yumichika looked back, Ikkaku was almost over to him, and the DJ readied himself. Not exactly sure what he was going to say or do. He'd just let whatever venom his body spewed out come naturally, trusting his gut on this one.

Ikkaku stopped in front of him, and much to Yumichika's agitation, did nothing but grin manically at him. He knew he was beautiful, but did not appreciate the intensity of the others attention. "You're grin is ugly," Yumichika scolded.

Now glowering, the other said, "Yeah, well so is your attitude."

The soft mounds of laughter that billowed from Yumichika's perfectly curved lips seemed to take them both by surprise, yet Ikkaku couldn't help but to smile at that. "You're something else, Ikkaku," Yumichikia said almost wistfully. Tapping dry the corner of his tear stung eyes, Yumichika asked, "I'm sure you'd like to know why I'm here."

Shaking his head, Ikkaku said, "Nah, not really. I'm just glad you are."

That primordial internal compass that directed him forward or backwards was going against Yumichika's better judgment. He'd always followed his gut instinct, and right now, it wasn't telling him to flee. In fact, it was rather adamant that he should allow himself to be pulled into the magnetism that was Ikkaku's bizarre presence. Only, he wasn't sure why. Perhaps he could get something out of Ikkaku or the man would be of use to him in the future. So, never one to go against the faithful internal polite that was his intrinsic know better, he found him self asking, "Ikkaku, if your offer for coffee still stands, I'd like to take you up on it."

The man tilted his head ever so slightly and blinked a couple of times as if he was trying to wake himself up from a dream or decided if he'd heard correctly. "I'll do you one better," he grinned, "let's go get dinner."

"My, how presumptuous. Dinner sounds more like a date, does it not?"

Rolling his eyes and nodding his head in the direction of the door, signaling for the other to follow, Ikkaku said, "All night diners serve coffee and food. It's up to you which one you get."

"If I didn't know any better, Id say that sounded almost like a test," the man poised, walking beside the other in suit.

"I don't test anyone. I just want to get to know ya' rather you consider it a date or not. Besides," he smirked humorously to the man beside him, "I'm kind've new to this, but If I was asking ya' on a date, I'd do a little better than that."

Yumichika considered the answer for a moment before allowing himself a subtle smile. He supposed, he would get dinner after all.

 **xXx**

 **Castiel4life : EK! Thank you for all the love. I tip my hat to any ByaIchi fan. Seriously, their beautiful and I wish they got more love. I'm glad you're enjoying this and the humor. I love a snarky Byakuya. I just feel like it fits his personality well. Thank you for reviewing my work! It makes my fan girl heart gush.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey beauties! First let me apologize for how long this chapter took to post. It's way too short for it to have taken this long, but honestly, it's my hardest story I'm writing right now. Also, with six ongoing stories and with such long chapters, my attention just keeps getting adverted. I just feel like with a story this detailed and with chapters this long, I should be updating quicker because some may not remember all that happened in the last chapters.**

 **Any way, I'll try better next time, but no promises. Though, if you're in need of a ByaIchi fix, and you're not already doing so, check out my other stories! This chapter is more of a set up chapter, so not too much happens.**

 **Thanks to everyone as always! I'll respond to reviews at the bottom. If you want quicker updates, the amount of reviews plays a big part in that.**

 **The After Show**

 **xXx**

" **I thought I saw the devil, this morning,**

 **looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue.**

 **With the warning to help me see myself clearer.**

 **I never meant to start a fire,**

 **I never meant to make you bleed.**

 **I'll be a better man today"**

 **-James Young**

Walking the path to her brothers car, the short trot felt much longer than it was in reality. Rukia found herself with some sympathy towards death row inmates, because she felt like a dead man walking. Each step brought the woman closer to her untimely decease with her brother's car acting as the spaciously, sophisticated electric chair. That performance was her last meal before it was all over, considering the mum outrage exuding from her brother was already throttling. Surly death was near.

Of course, her metaphorical death, but it felt as terrifying all the same. They say there are certain men you don't want to run into in a dark ally, but the woman would take on the totality of all seedy gagsters rather than deal with her brothers frightening disappointment.

Silently, the two walked, and Rukia just hung her head and waited for the sharp tongue jeremiad that she was certain to be bestowed upon her. What would happen? Would she be homeless, having to rough it out on the worn in, health hazard of a cushion that was the bands raggedy couch? Would she have to try sleeping amongst vibrating walls that shook from the half baked thrum of Metallica covers? How much money would she have to set aside for ear plugs and air freshener? Sure, that way she could stay in the band, but she'd also have to infiltrate her friends houses and borrow their running water for hygienic purposes.

As the woman was contemplating how many Chappy posters she could get away with plastering over the already riddled wall of their band room and who's favorite lamented singer would have to be rightful discarded for her cause, Byakuya broke her out of her plight. Holding open the passenger seat door, Byakuya commanded, "Get in."

Rukia looked at the car as if it was the demon possessed automobile from that one Stephen King book, and it was going to drive her straight to hell if she took a step inside. Still, she merely nodded demurely and hopped in.

As he started the engine, he took note of the girls limbs, which were more bumped covered and shuttering than a withdrawing addict. Rolling his eyes, he discarded his jacket and handed it over to the girl. She eye'd it suspiciously for a moment, as if the jacket was secretly a trap that would inject her with poison the instant she donned it. That or perhaps he was lulling her into a safe sense of security to make his impending tirade all the more potent. None the less it, she thanked him and swamped herself in the jacket that probably cost more than the funeral her family would arrange after her brother kicked her ass six feet into the ground.

"Perhaps you're unaware," Byakuya's guttural voice broke the silence, actually making Rukia flinch, "but they do make these marvelous things called pants for when it's so cold outside."

Rukia was sure she replied, but it was such gibberish that you would have thought her brother was driving her home after getting her wisdom teeth extracted, and she was too doped up on laughing gas to say anything sensical or remotely normal. For all she knew, she said 'look at the silly dancing leprechauns outside,' because after her tongue amnesia, a long stretch of silence ensued.

The waiting was torturous. It was just there, practically stinging her ear canals with it's menacing possibilities. "Byakuya…" she said, just letting his name linger in the space between. Her tactics were similar to those as someone trying to gauge the threat of a seemingly vicious animal, fearing sudden movements might result in an unhinged jaw clamping to their juggler. "I hate this silence," she finally asserted, realizing she was still breathing, taking that as a good sign. Well, good may have been a strong word, but..

"I understand you're mad, and I'm very sorry. I would rather you say what you're going to say than for us to just sit here tensely."

Gloved hands gripped the steering wheel fiercely, and with a rather calm expression, Byakuya asked, "Is this the type of situation that deems a knee jerk reaction?"

Rukia said nothing, taking her brother's harsh tone as a sign that his question was most certainly rhetorical. After a few more silent moments of driving down roads lit up like runways by throngs of street lights, the tension was as tightly stretched as Ichigo's bank account a couple of days before pay day. Finally Byakuya let out the slightest of sighs that sounded as alarming as a loud buzzard that signaled the start of a leg race. "Rukia..I'm not your father, and therefore, I have no intentions on punishing you like a child. Our arrangement is rather simple. If you are to stay with me, you are not to become too invested in music. It is your choice to make at the end of the day."

Staring at the lines etched into her palms as if she was trying to summon her inner gypsy fortune teller and predict the outcome of her choice in the creases of those tiny callused hands, the girl bit her lip nervously. "I will stop playing with the band, Byakuya." Putting on a smile that was more counterfeit that illegally printed money, she said, "You're right, it's for the best."

If he was being honest, Byakuya was glad his sister hadn't called his bluff. Despite most believing Byakuya's heart was as decayed and frigid as a meadow of flowers in the clutches of winter, nothing could be further from the truth. Like hell he'd let his little sister couch surf like some high school burn out, making all of her posh clothes smell like whatever strand of weed said hooligans were indulging in that week. He knew for a fact she wouldn't go back to their father, and Byakuya wouldn't let her. He might as well have done her a favor and drove the girl off a lofty cliff, for at least that way of dying would be quick and relatively painless. A week with their father could make a lobotomy seem pleasant if not preferable. You might be a drooling zombie with no personality, but once their father sunk his teeth in, he could have the same effect, only by slowly suffocating any original part of you that he didn't deem advantageous.

Though that look of defeat and sadness didn't sit right with him. It felt almost as if he was wronging her, despite the fact she was the one who deemed it fit to lie to his face. That sad forced smile was the water to the nascent buds of guilt sprouting in his chest, and memories of Ichigo's earlier words and his vibrant orange locks were the sunshine. He must have recanted the phrase 'I will not feel guilty' in his inner dialogue dozens of times, like a troubled pupil who's teacher made them write how the'll never do their particular offense again one hundred times over as punishment, despite the fact that same kid knew they'd go on to do it again. Byakuya was both the crabbed teacher and the foolhardy student in such an analogy. Here he was enforcing a dogma on himself while he knew it wouldn't do anything.

With his voice betraying nothing, he said, "If you had of just come to me, Rukia, at least granted me the privilege of trying to understand, perhaps we could have worked out some arrangement to where you could be in this _band_." He spat out the word band as if giving the neophyte of a group such a title was as vastly insulting as comparing a third grade arts and crafts project to Van Gough's 'Starry Night'. Though, even he knew that was unfair, seeing as they were rather good.

The sparkle in the girls eyes made Byakuya realize he'd just opened a whole new can of worms. As he said earlier, he wasn't in the position where he felt the right to punish Rukia. So if he was admitting that he was open for negations, then what was his reason for not being now other than wanting to punish the girl for her lie and lackluster friend choices? Oh yeah..that's right..

"However, I don't see why it must be _that_ band. I do not approve of your friendship with Kurosaki Ichigo," the man noted definitively as they pulled into their drive way. Unbuckling his seat belt and turning off his ignition, he turned to look at the girl once more. "He is lazy and insufferable, insolent at best."

And then something happened that had Byakuya questioning the laws of physics. Rukia looked at him with sever anger in her eyes. It so oddly reminded him of the time Hisana had broken up their relationship for about two months of their senior year. "Byakuya, you can say whatever you like about the band or my involvement in it, but I can not allow you to talk so crassly about Ichigo." Was Rukia..actually standing up to him..what.. If he wasn't already sitting, he'd probably have to take a seat for this one. "You cannot simply judge him based off of…what..I don't even know. Ichigo, he probably wouldn't like me telling you this, but I don't care," Rukia asserted, her purple eyes deepening in the shadowy encumbrance of the vehicle. "This needs to be said. The reason Ichigo is often late is because of his work situation. I know other kids work too and manage to make it to school on time, but he has a lot more to lose. Ichigo..well both of his parents died, Byakuay. Ever since then, he's taken care of his sisters and works forty plus hours a week to help pay off all of their utilities and property taxes. Even with the life insurance money, he didn't want to use that because he wanted the girls to have school payed for, unlike him, who-" she rose her voice slightly, as if to emphasizes the point, "got into college all on scholarships. He won't even allow them to get more than part time jobs because he always puts them first. That kid, yeah, he can be a pain in the ass at times, but he's the most resilient person I know, and he's certainly not lazy! I don't even know when that dummy sleeps. Also, he's a total martyr," she scoffed resentfully. "He takes on all of this responsibility, and he never asks for any help. He won't even complain. The only reason I know all of this stuff is because I actually went to his house, met his sisters, and took the time to get to know him." Looking away from Byakuya with a disappointment that was foreign to the man, Rukia chided, "Honestly, Byakuya, with the way you're talking, you're starting to remind me of dad.."

And if that wasn't the slap in the face he needed to bring him to his senses, he didn't know what would be. What was even more brutally savage about those words was, they hadn't been said in a moment of anger to just hurt him, but were meant with complete sincerity.

Was his bitterness and jaded ways getting so out of hand, that he was slowly morphing into his father? Like a butterfly transforming in reverse, was he emerging from his chrysalis cocoon as a worse version of himself? Had he not been growing, but merely depreciating? Just as harshly as her words hit, a memory hit Byakuya at the same time.

 **xXx**

 _Byakuya Kuchiki did not sneak. You'd never find the young man scaling walls or crafting hand made ropes out of old t-shirts to shimmy down from his third story window. Rue the day that Byakuya left behind a poorly contrived stand in upon his bed in case his father decided to do a late night bed check. All while insulting his dad's intelligence, for he didn't get to his position from being easily fooled by a darkness veiled basketball and lumps of clothes positioned under Byakuya's comforter. One would sooner see a double handed amputee preforming a juggling act before witnessing a young Byakuya leaving his driveway without his head lights on out of fear of being caught by his father._

 _Of course, Byakuya's life wasn't some M.T.V reality show filled with reckless abandonment, moral dubiety, and legal no - no's. The only late night blowouts at the library traded out alcohol for unhealthy amounts of espresso, or table tops trampled with dancers for table tops throttled by text books. There also wasn't much along the lines of peer pressure at the music shop he worked at and frequented, unless his two self proclaimed musical gurus/ adopted uncles counted. He supposed the two were the apotheosis of what an adult homosexual partnership looked and functioned like, and frankly, they were the only illustration of a same sex couple Byakuya knew, unless you counted the gay protagonist on Queer As Folk, one of the only shows he watched. So perhaps they were the miracle grow to the seeds of gay curiosity that were already latently plotted._

 _So at twenty, still living with his father while attending university, he came home when he felt like it, just as he did an innumerable amount of times before. When he flipped on the light switch, there his father stood, idly fiddling with a rotating spice rack that they never used. Like one of those fraudulently decorated model apartments they took potential renters through, all of the meticulous chosen decor was to create an ambiance of domestic bliss that did not really resided within said household._

 _Byakuya found himself startled, considering his dad's presence felt a little too much like one of those cheap, uninspired jump scares that are tropes of all horror movies._

" _Did I scare you?" papa Kuchiki asked._

" _Surprised me would be more accurate," Byakuya rebutted, "seeing as I did not expect to find you lurking in the darkness." The young man had to wonder what had gotten into his father. Perhaps he'd depleted his surplus of French imported_ _Richard Hennessy_ _\- a three thousand dollar bottle and probably one of the most expensive hangovers you'll ever have the blessing to endure - and found it a Lewis and Clark level exploration just to detect a light switch. However, though his behavior was odd, it was not exorbitantly foreign-brandy intoxication, odd._

" _I do not believe one can lurk in their own house," the elder said while he tinkered with the glass container of freeze dry parsley as if it was an ancient artifact of great interest, and he was trying to gauge it's functions. Though, Byakuya theorized, his father probably had never used a herb with his own two hands, so maybe that was truly his mission._

 _Even after considering that his father had finally lost it, that the goulash of alcohol, prozac, and remarkably expensive bluefin tuna that made up his daily grub had finally sent him bonkers, the young man couldn't find it in him to care. "Well," he remarked with that trademark Kuchiki derisiveness, "whatever it is you're doing, I suppose I'll leave you and the spices to it."_

 _As he moved towards the staircase, his fathers next words were attention grabbing to say the least. "Going to pack?"_

 _Turning around to face the man, who in certain company Byakuya referred to as his sperm donor, he asked, "What?"_

 _Fishing a hand in his pocket, papa Kuchiki dug out a folded up, unidentified piece of paper. "Do you want to tell me what this is?"_

 _Playing as dumb as a third year senior, Byakuya said with complete seriousness, "I think some would call that a piece of paper."_

" _Don't be smart with me, boy," he scowled, flicking the paper at his son and watching as it rebounded off the young man's chest. Byakuya merely sighed and bent to pick up the paper, annoyed by both the conversation and having to exert himself. "One way plane tickets to Nashville. Now I've never known you to be a lover of country music, so what the hell is in Tennessee thats would deem a trip?"_

" _Actually, I do quite enjoy Johnny Cash and Patsy Clin-"_

" _Will you stop with the sarcastic comments, and tell me why the hell you have plane tickets to go to Nashville?" his father interrupted._

 _Byakuya actually did like Jonny Cash and Patsy Cline. Not that his father would know that, seeing as his assistant always had to remind the all to assiduous business man of his own son's birthday and buy the card on his behalf. None the less, that was beside the point. He wasn't hiding the information from his father, seeing as the tickets had been blatantly laid out on his desk. You have to see someone to tell them something, and their usual post-it note communication system they had in place was even a little too callous of a reveal for Byakuya's taste. Leaving a note that read: 'Remember Rukia's dentist appointment and to pick up milk. By the way, I'm leaving for Nashville. May or may not be back for Christmas, sayonara,' was disrespectful behavior towards the man whom fed him and kept him cloth for the majority of his life. So why did he feel as if he was on one of them 'I almost got away with it' specials? He did nothing wrong._

" _My band was offered a recording contract and we accepted," Byakuya explained, which was followed up by the most drawn out, wild wild west style stare down in the history of stare downs. Byakuya finally broke the awkwardly painful eye contact. "I was going to tell you, I just ha-"_

" _What about school?" papa Kuchiki spat_

" _I can finish online," Byakuya answered, the composed yang to his fathers flagrantly outraged ying. "Or perhaps just wait. It is not as if college will be going anywhere. However, this opportunity is not something that will just reappear. You must see the logic in that."_

" _Tch, all I see is you wasting your time on frivolous matters when you should be working diligently towards your P.H.D." Scathingly, his father asked, "How disappointed will your grandfather be when he finds out?"_

" _I think he will just be happy that I am happy," netting his brows, he added, "unlike someone I know."_

" _He's always wanted you to become the dean of students at the university. Wasn't that always the plan?"_

" _Who's plan?" Byakuya asked mockingly. "Certainly not mine. I understand his desires, but I can't completely sacrifice everything I desire for the dreams of someone else." Letting a little bit of that pent up acerbity he'd accumulated over the years seep out, Byakuya exalted, "And when you care for someone, you don't expect something like that from them, because you realize asking them to give up everything that matters is like asking them to kill apart of themselves. This is the difference between grandfather and yourself, father. He merely wants this for me out of nostalgic reasons, but you, you want this for me so I can be just another perfect cog in the Kuchiki empire." Auster and resolutely, Byakuya, asserted, "I won't be what you want of me."_

 _Byakuya's father scoffed in an incredulous disbelief, pinching at the bridge of his nose in an attempt to calm himself. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he said, "And I assume you are taking her?"_

 _Byakuya's jaw clinched tightly. "She has a name. And yes, father, Hisana is, of course, going with me. She is in the band, after all. More so, I have every intention of marrying her."_

 _By the exasperated look of disbelief his father threw at him, you'd think Byakuya had just proclaimed his intentions to marry a forty year old biker chick coined garbage bag while also moving into her mobile home unit and raising her three kids as his own. "How disgusting," papa Kuchiki scoffed. "You're going to marry someone who's been like a sister to you?"_

" _She has never been like a sister to me," Byakuya reasoned. "Perhaps we grew up closely because our mothers were friends, but even they were constantly talking about how they wished us to grow up and get married one day."_

" _That was just the patter of two woman. Nothing more and nothing less," his father denounced, flicking his wrist in distain._

 _Once Byakuya's mother,_ _Demetria (Demri), a Greek American - of whom Byakuya inherited his lush lashes, gunmetal gray eyes, and his straight from base to tip nose, told Byakuya that his father was not always like this. The two had attended equally as elitist, high-dollar universities in the same city. Both the decedents of recent immigrants living out the American dream, doing the same as the plethora of newcomers had when they swarmed to Ellis Island all those years ago. Byakuya's father was working towards his doctrine in literature, and Demri was five years and a ruthless case of insomnia into a degree in environmental law._

 _On the day they met, the man sat aloof to the world while reading a book in Central Park, unruffled by the gradually growing conjugation of protesters. Stranglers from the now disaffected white liberals of the 60's, he was certain. Sure that they were just as abundant with money as they were with their outrag_ e. _Kuchiki thought, following in their parents microscopic carbon foot prints, they were privileged yuppies who sense of self importance was becoming a bit to big for their oversized sweatshirts as they superciliously deemed themselves revolutionaries. Apparently anyone who could manage a permanent marker and had a little bit of spare time could change the world those days. He wasn't sure what they were demonstrating about. Perhaps they were chanting out mantra's with elementary rhyming patterns in hopes of saving the last surviving tree that stood in Time Square or taking signatures to have a peace sign forever engraved into the Statue of Liberty. It was anyones guess, really._

 _Suddenly something or someone did a cannon ball right into his long enduring oasis of silence. The spot that had once been empty was now replaced with a slew of poster board captured catchy slogans, each one more cringe worthy than the next. Fully intending to look up and inform the intruder that he had read street signs more proactive than her homemade banners, he looked up and saw her. Looking upon the exotically, stunning woman as she rummaged through a bag and overlooked his existence, he went breathless. Heaven opened up, trumpets sounded, and his unworthy eye's seared at the blinding light given off by the sanctified curves of the woman. Surely he was looking at the deity of beauty and melodramatic rallying cries. The bird's song became more melodic, and the sun shined more vibrantly. In that moment, he knew he had a new goal. If he could round up some charm, he'd aim for an invitation inside her high-rise, acid washed shorts. Need be, he'd let her bounce mind numbingly, abysmal sign ideas off him if only she'd bounce_ _ **on**_ _him._

 _She reminded him of a slightly more promiscuous and bohemian D.J tanner from Full house. She wore a colorful polo - well three-fourths of a polo, seeing as the sleeve were cut off and the garment was cropped - with the collar popped as high as she looked with her frenzied bag pillaging and blood shot eyes. Little did he know, the only thing she was was getting doped up on was sleep deprivation. After a quick scavenger hunt through his best attributes, the candor Kuchiki came up with diddly in the charisma department._

 _He was like a Sim's who'd been loaded up with so many practical traits, that there was little left to delve out when it came to the more sociable of virtues. He could write a ten page analyses essay about the anapestic prowess behind the transcendentalism poet, Walt Whitman, but none of those thoughtfully contrived sonnets could inspire even a singular meaningful flirtatious remark. If years dedicated to dissecting some of the most romantic literature ever penned couldn't assist him with picking up one chick, he supposed people were right, there was no real life application to university. If he was the prince charming, Casanova type, perhaps he would have been able to tap into some basic human social tact and simply say hello, but alas, he fell back on his trusty talent of engineering biting insults._

' _You and your signs are disturbing me, that seat is taken,' he said. He had no clue why, considering it was the exact opposite of what he wanted. There lied the truth of why every girl who ever had her pigtail pulled by some sticky fingered brat had been told the nasty behavior was a sign of affection. Like everyone else, many men were just victims to their gender bias culture, discouraged to express any emotion other than seething anger, because being a "real" man meant having the emotional spectrum of a primate. Never taught the proper mechanism of conveying feelings, their conditioned brains sputtered and couldn't articulately compute these - what some considered - weak and womanly sensations._

 _As expected, she gave him a dirty look, making her demon red eye's twitch. 'By who, your gigantically rude attitude?' she snipped._

 _Kuchiki proceeded to tell her that if she was half as good at writing protest slogans as she was at dishing out comebacks, she might actually make some real change. Then she "accidentally" knocked his book, Stephen King's Fire starter, into a puddle, and to his venomous look, her only apology was, 'Andy dies in the end and Charlie takes revenge by killing everyone before going into hiding. Now, instead of being a lonely ass hole on a bench, why don't you come be one of many ass's with a sign.' She handed him a sign that read 'frack is wack,' and of course, he went._

 _As they say, the rest was history. Despite wanting to explore the plains of her body, he never circumnavigated south of her border, at least, not until he unintentionally fell in love. He tried to woo her by buying her progressive books on environmental issues and herb plants for her apartment, and she found how much of a try hard dork he was to be cute. They were both determined, honest, and loyal people, and they could always make the other laugh. Things were good. However, this was not some cliche RomCom about a stuffy man learning to live by meting an ethereal weirdo who taught him the meaning of life through forcing him to dance in the rain and save stray cats. He was logical and cold, she was empathetic and an optimist. Their perspectives clashed like an outfit comprised of two different nuances of denim, and they only worked so well because of their ability to accept and respect the others opposing views without ultra harsh criticism. Though, as it normally does, their unlikable parts became centerstage as they grew older and more indurated. After they had Byakuya, the elder Kuchiki's worst parts started soaking up the lime light, selfishly taking center stage like some holier-than-thou diva. His draconian manner and his projection style of parenting became the Beyonce, and his compassion and understanding became the backup singers to this stick-and-past, pop trio dynamics of a personality he maintained._

 _Byakuya was sure his father had inferiority complex coined by some avant-garde psychologist clad with a majestic mustache and an alcohol problem, since his mother once informed him that his grandfather never wanted his father to be the dean of their university, and instead, he offered the position to his older brother - who rejected. Apparently he lived in his older brothers shadow like the cement pathways that ran beside a cluster of skyscrapers. His mother, however, seemed to age like a fine wine, only to become better and sweeter with time. It was that sweet nature that allowed her the humility to look past her haughty upbringing and befriend much of anyone, which was how she met Hisana's mother and unwittingly offset the domino effect that was Byakuya's Poe style romantic tragedy._

 _As the two grew up, Hisana and Byakuya's mothers were best friends. It was an odd pairing to most, because Hisans's mother was surviving off of food stamps while the Kuchiki's were buying schools and vacationing in the Virgin Islands. Within their early teenage years, the two had made their mother's fanatical wishes come true when they started dating._

 _Byakuya loved Hisana. She was spirited yet humbled. She was empathetic and compassionate. She had a love for learning and music, and the two had a deep connection solidified through years of friendship. After Hisana's mother died, the girl and her sister, Rukia, moved in with the Kuchikis, and for two years, even while dating, Hisana lived under the strict regimen of the patriarchal figurehead that was the elder Kuchiki, straining the two's relationship at times. At seventeen, after Byakuya's mother passed, Hisana found work, moved out, and lived on her own, as much for her own sanity as it was for the health of the two love bird's relationship. While Rukia was officially adopted by the family, Hisana never was. Despite their being no blood relation, that fact wasn't enough to avoid the circulation of vicious yet baseless rumors spat by the most fastidious inner circles within the upper middle class. These clicks were easily bored gossip vultures that loved to peck aways at the pain of others. They were gluttons for the slightest hint of a scandal, filling their voracity for amusement or meaning. Gossiping about the entrails of other lives was the substance that distracted from the gnawing pain of their own repetitive, shallow ones. So slander about the Kuchiki's inclination for "keeping it in the family" became the flavor of the week, the tastiest morsel of fruitless chatter that everyone was gourmandizing._

 _Now that was padder, and the only one who payed it any thought was papa Kuchiki. "Do not perverse our relationship just because you can't deal with a few trite rumors."_

 _Smirking with an almost comical delirium, the elder poised, "At least it isn't as worse as it could be. You could be following your other perverse inclinations."_

 _Looking the man up and down carefully, Byakuya asked, "What are you talking about?"_

 _Ambling over with bigger, more arrogant steps, like some wanna-be alpha performing an elaborately territorial promenade, the elder reminisced, "Lets just say the wealthy trade secrets about as much as they do stock information. Be lucky your," he remarked mockingly, "_ _ **intended**_ _doesn't attend the same schools as you, or else she would of been graced with the same rumors I was." Like a sadist for mortification, the man smirked as realization sprung upon the younger Kuchiki._

 _Panning his hands out in the air and holding them like quotation marks for his ridicule, Byakuya's father declared boldly, "The heir of the Kuchiki legacy spotted swapping spit and leaving a party in the company of a known cock sucker. Makes for a great headline, doesn't it?" When his son did not speak, but only stared, he asked, "You must've realized that your flagrant behavior would've gotten back to me. Imagine your dear old dads surprise when he was approached, not once, but three individual times to be pestered about rumors that your classmates told their parents." When more silence followed, he mused, "What, cat got your tongue? Or is the expression," he tapped his chin in a fraudulent act of speculation, "cock got your tongue? These things are so hard to remember these days."_

 _Drawn from his shock induced stupor, Byakuya's face was as red and sparked as a time bomb signaling it's impending, perilous explosion. "You will not breath a word of this to Hisana."_

 _Chuckling victoriously, the elder walked even closer. His snippy comments were akin to haphazardly clipping the colorful wires of that bomb-like disposition. "Why deprive her the opportunity to find out that she wasted her life away with a homo?" Yanking free that last wire, the man asked rhetorically, "Tell me, son, is taking it up the ass really going to be worth it when you lose everything you worked for?"_

 _Only there was no explosion, no blinding flash of white light, no Zeus like wrath to uproot all nearby foundations. Instead, his son just returned that challenging smirk in spades. "Oh yes, father. Please, let me explain the joys," he remarked, his acrimoniously amused tone acting as the perfect compounds, mixing together as dangerously as a chemical reaction. "Taking it up the ass felt heavenly, something everyone should experience." At his father's face wringing like a wet towel, he suggested, "Maybe you should try it, perhaps it would plunge that permeant stick you have shoved up your ass."_

 _As if playing chicken with insults, the loser the one whom lost it first, Byakuya had won when his father's fist slammed into his cheek bone. "Get out of my house," the elder demanded, panting at a completely unruffled Byakuya._

 _Preening momentarily, he allowed himself the tiniest of triumphant smirks. "My pleasure."_

 **xXx**

Once brought from his inner world, Byakuya was sure he was as dewy and blanched as someone having a PTSD induced flashback. Certainly it felt like one. The look on Rukia's face was one of concern and mild guilt, possibly with a speck of surprise. Obviously she had not expected her words to have such an impact.

Clearing his throat, Byakuya wore the veneer of unfazed as well as he wore the latest line of Prada button ups. "Perhaps you are right, Rukia," he admitted, words that had the younger Kuchiki wondering if she had stepped through a star gate or entered an episode of the Twilight Zone. There was a first time for everything, she supposed. "I'll try to be more open minded in regards to Kurosaki Ichigo." Opening his door and prompting the girl to do the same, he added, "and tomorrow we'll discuss in further detail the schedule you'll be keeping with this band."

Stunned, she nodded and followed in silence. Call it alchemy, godly intervention, or just a plain old identity crisis, Rukia didn't want to break the spell that had befallen her brother. 

**xXx**

Shirts and wii-controllers were marooned carelessly like old take-out receipt, their relevance lost to the enthralling composition of melodic lip smacking and theatric Mario Kart theme music. Melrose's hands moved up the taupe sides of Renji with the same precise artistry of which he used to beat his counterpart three times over. The red head was a rather sore loser, but the barkeep's nimble hands were like ice packs to his bruised ego. The bottle spinning, tattoo gun wielding, video game dominating, incubus of a man had hands with a versatile dexterity that could make Michelangelo weep with envy. They were like the swiss army knife of appendages, and surely there were few task they could not conquer. Most certainly there were more skills that Renji had yet to unlock on those multi purposeful tools. He wouldn't be surprised to find out that Melrose also partook in needle point and was stellar at the game Operation, and if he thought he was turned on by the way the more experienced man knew game cheats like he knew brands of liquor, he was even more stimulated by the cheat codes Melrose was pressing into his fleshy aroused skin. For these reactions were not of the usual sorts. It wouldn't surprise Renji to find out that the man was also some sex guru who spent months living amongst a clandestine village of alp dwellers, receiving pupillage under the plum of some pedagogue of the kama sutra, learning every erogenous pressure point a man's body held. He wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find out Melrose knew at least ten different ways to make a man climax without even touching him.

Hearing an alien moan reverberate through their collided chest, Renji was certain he rolled over on the controller and "The Exorcist of Emily Rose" was playing on the tv, because that hedonic grunt was the workings of demonic possession, not himself. Amongst the unexplored audible reactions, Renji jolted and pressed two flatten palms against the chest heaving against his own. "How about we yellow light this, yeah?" he proposed, though his lustful rasping seemed to betray his intentions.

Pulling back ever so slightly, Melrose smiled helplessly at the cherry bomb looking moments away from blowing in more ways than one. "We can red light it," he offered with a comforting kiss to the forehead, "if you'd like."

"Ye-yeah," Renji laughed nervously, "that's probably a good call."

Pressing tender kisses that were romantic and not sexual in nature up the man's jaw line, trailing them from one chiseled, flushed feature to the next, Renji's body fluttered like butterfly wings. "Whatever pace your comfortable with, dear. I don't want to make you feel pressured."

As the man shifted, so he was laying more to Renji's side, he curled around the strapping figure and rested his head in the curve of Renji's neck. Their limbs were tangled and shaking like tree branches in the wind.

"It's just, you're, you know," he sputtered, shifting his eyes nervously, "a man."

Sitting up in a dramatic act of bewilderment, Melrose boomed, "I AM?! Why didn't you tell me sooner?!"

Renji scoffed as the other playfully chuckled at his expense. "Yeah, and a really good looking, experienced one at that."

After he placed a kiss in the junction under Renji's ear, Melrose nuzzled his head into the opening, finding that he fitted perfectly. "Just because I'm use to skiing on the expert slopes, doesn't mean I can't take a run on the bunny slop," he reasoned metaphorically.

"More like I'm still watching the training videos," Renji snorted, and Melrose watched him irradiate with the same wide eyed rapture one viewed a vibrant Christmas light display with. "I've never..done this before with a guy, any of it." Trying to appear laid back, Renji interweaved their fingers and leaned his cheek against the mounds of silky golden brown locks. By the tactile quality and the tea tree aroma, Renji speculated that Melrose had a whole portion of his paycheck budgeted out for high quality hair care protects. He liked that, seeing as Renji probably spent more time and money contemplating the properties of his plumage and scavenging for helpful hair tips as he did investing in his pricey affinity for stringed instruments. The idea of them primping each other and swapping hair products was so mawkishly adorable, that it even made him sick. Admittedly, he still reveled in the thought. Oddly hilarious fantasies of Ikkaku walking in on them in the midst of gaming marathons, sitting like two weirdos with deep conditioning plastic bags over their heads, could epitomize his relationship goals.

"I had a feeling," Melrose countered as he smiled endearingly up at the man.

"Plus, call me old fashion, but I'd like to be dating a guy officially before I do that kind've stuff, ya know," Renji admitted.

Tracing the edged of Renji's face for the sake of pure exploration, Melrose remarked honestly, "I'm not use to such chivalry. It's nice.."

Turning his head ever so slightly, Renji looked sincerely into those sea foam eyes. "You only deserve to be treated nicely, you're a total prize. I'm still sort've amazed that you'd even want a dope like me."

Brushing his thumb past the cherry colored strands that interrupted the intense brown eyes sparkling in his direction, Melrose shook his head as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Have you ever thought that I'm a dope like you? You're completely authentic, Renji Abarai, not to mention passionate and full of life. I find you refreshing and beautiful, and the people who haven't just didn't understand what was right in front of their faces. So we'll go as slow as you want, because getting to know you is the funnest part anyway. Theres no need to speed through it."

"We-ll, It-its hard to go slow when you say things like that!" Renji sputtered.

"Ah, I see my smooth talking is having it's desired effects," Melrose jested, "mwahaha, my evil plan is working."

With a smirk, Renji quipped, "I knew it, you are a demon."

"Yes, today I rule your pants, tomorrow I rule the world," Melrose laughed, wrapping his arms tighter around Renji who had turned so the two were facing each other on their sides. "Let me take you on a date, Cherry Bomb," he whispered.

"A date?" Renji reiterated, as if he had heard the other wrong.

"Yeah," Melrose confirmed. "I can be gentlemanly also."

Sticking out a lip ever so slightly, Renji whined, "Well maybe I wanted to take _you_ on a date."

Melrose chuckled at the pouting, finding it charming. "We can take each other on dates then, but I call dibs on the first one."

Putting on a demure smile, Renji said, "This is all new, I don't really know the rules to this sort've thing."

"Don't worry, you'll receive your 'How to be Gay' handbook via the mail in about two weeks," Melrose taunted, earning him a scowl from the other.

"This is serious!" Renji huffed.

Lavishing the man's contorted face with reassuring kisses, Melrose soothed, "There are no _rules_ to this sort've thing. It's no different from a straight relationship. Besides, girls can take guys on dates too. I know you like chivalry, but this isn't the medieval period, you know."

"Maybe they can, but that doesn't mean many do," Renji mocked, "none that I've dated anyway."

More seriously, Melrose tighten his grip and had a look of importance in his usually devil-may-care eyes. "I know it's too early to make anything official, but just so my intentions are clear, I'm a one guy type man, myself. Even if it's just going out on dates for right now, you're the only one I'll be dating." He blushed - something as red and as rare as a blood moon for Melrose - and said, "I wouldn't go into this without every intention of it going somewhere, and I hope you feel the same."

At the way his body ignited like a brush fire, Renji felt the torridity of his own bashful embarrassment. "Pfh, wha- I-I mean, yeah, of course! Don't be stupid!" he admonished. "What do I look like, a play boy or something?"

"You're sexy enough to be one, thats for sure," he flirted, prompting Renji to hide his awkwardness by joining their lips for a heated kiss.

Breaking away, Melrose suggested, "We should probably get up before Ikkaku comes back and we give him a fright."

Tucking his head underneath Melrose's chin, Renji agreed, "Yeah, but five more minutes, okay?"

"Yeah," Melrose smiled, "five more minutes."

 **xXx**

After the show, Ikkaku and Yumichika found themselves at one of a hand full of all night diners called college dinner. Aptly named, it was located a hop, skip, and jump away from the university and was employed by resentfully self resilient part time students - whores of the food service industry, pimping out their fraudulent smiles and best conversational skills for crumpled dollar bills, guck covered chump change, and the occasional ball of lint. The sixty's themed establishment was a watering hole for the shamelessly inebriated and third shifters alike, glitter festooned erotic dancers, scrub clad nurses, and crossed eyed club goers all peacefully coexisting in a mutual inclination for late night activities.

As expected, the coffee was less than mediocre, had a bitter sapidity, and was as char burnt as an ostracized woman during the Salem witch trials. Not to mention the specs of grinds floating around the surface of the remised beverage perfected the whole 'meh' vibe going on. A whole sphere of mismatched entrées filled the menu, where you could get anything ranging from calamari to gyros to hot wings oh my, and the jut box seemed to played the beach boys on a loop.

The server was a friendly and fresh faced young woman with big cheeks and dimples the size of moon craters. She preformed well, seeming to know just what mask to put on at each table. To the left was a group of blackout drunk frat boys finger painting the table with packs of creamer and grains of salt. There she played the endeared baby sitter. At the next was another group of men, slightly less drunk and slightly less petulant, winking and flirting. She'd throw out lewd one liners, pretending to be 'one of the guys' by making the three snort up their burnt coffee with bouts of laughter while she served them pancakes. There she was a comedian. At Ikkaku and Yumichika's table, she was friendly yet short, seeming to catch the vibe of their less than cordial attitudes. The server was like a self constructed ball of plato, molding herself into whatever you wanted her to be.

For a while, the two ate with steady albeit shallow conversation, but it almost seemed normal, not cloyed by the usual dramatic touch their altercations had. Though the night was still young, and Ikkaku was still waiting for the witching hour to arrive before he dismissed the idea that the D.J's other personality might resurface. Almost as if this was some modernized version of Cinderella, he feared that when the clock stroked two a.m, the impishly rude man would return once more. His bike would transmute into a pumpkin, the servers into field mice, and Yumichika would flee, the only proof he ever existed being a snarky insult he left behind written on a cocktail napkin.

Nearing the end of their meal, Ikkaku excused himself to empty the tank. On his way back from the bathroom, he rounded the corner and saw Yumichika talking to one of the workers. He had _that_ look. The same look Jerry gave Tom before he did something mischievous. That Denise the menace type smirk that could only mean some devious tomfoolery was churning in the crafty mind that held more offensive game plans than a NFL playbook.

As the man walked away, Ikkaku made his way back over to the table. He took a seat, throwing Yumichika an accusatory glare. "What was that about?"

"My, my," Yumichika speculated with a curl of the lips, "arn't you the jealous one? Do you have a problem with me talking to other men?" He pressed his petal soft lips to the rim of his coffee mug and lifted an amused brow.

"Cut the crap, it ain't cute," Ikkaku berated, though he thought it was _sort've_ cute. "You were up to something."

Across from them, the group of sloshed out men started their own off pitch, a cappella rendition of Bohemian Rapacity, and Ikkaku thought that if Freddie Mercury wasn't dead, he'd grab a dirty steak knife and end it all hearing the butchered attempt. "I''m offended," Yumichika huffed and poked his lip out just a bit. "I was only trying to do something nice. I convinced the manager to wave our fee. He's a regular at the club and has quite the infatuation with me."

Ikkaku scoffed and twisted mindlessly on a scrunched up straw wrapper. "You just can't help your self, can 'ya? I'm perfectly capable of paying my damn self."

"What, does it hurt your masculinity if I pay? How two decades ago," Yumichika mocked as he deliberately ran his fingertip around the rim of the cup.

"Batting your eye's at some guy and getting him to pay for our meal isn't _you_ paying, and it ain't sweet. That's just husslin' for the sake of it." Ikkaku leaned back in his seat, cringing at the bellowing beside him. "And if you three don't shut your traps, you'll be meeting Freddie Mercury very soon," he barked, scaring the grown infant's into silence. He noticed the sever sending him silent pleads of gratitude.

At the tantrum, Yumichika looked rather humored. "Arn't you testy tonight? What, haven't smoked recently?"

"Nah, I just don't like adults who play games like children." Big hands wiggled into his coat pocket as he poised, "You really try hard to be prissy and mean, ya know? Almost like you're trying to put me off. Tryin' a little _too_ hard, if ya' ask me."

"Is it working?" Yumichika asked and tilted his head with a pretty smirk.

Ikkaku returned to smirk twice over. "Unfortunately for you, I'm pretty persistent."

After he appraised the man for a moment, Yumichika turned up his nose. "I'm not dating you."

"What makes you think I'd want to date someone like you?" Ikkaku asked, giving an offended looked.

That made Yumichika perk an intrigued brow. "Than what do you want? Or are you just some weird sadist who get's off by being treated badly?"

Ikkaku watched as Yumichika perched his pointed chin on his palm, almost poising and flaunting his beauty like a showcase model. "Ta' get to know you. I wan't to know why ya' like to use people like you did that guy, why you act so nasty."

"Maybe because I'm just a nasty person."

"Ah," he grinned before gulping down the rest of his now lukewarm coffee, "you're not that simple, Yumi. I can tell that much. I don't like havin' regrets, and I think I'd regret not knowing you."

"You obviously have no sense," Yumichika huffed, dipping his head to hide the hints of a smile pulling at his firm lips.

"Nah, I never have known whats good for me."

"Well that dare devil thing you have going for your isn't _cute_ either, Ikkaku. Trust me, reckless abandonment is for people who don't value their life to much," he smiled sadly while he pressed a coffee cup to his mouth in an attempts to hide the gesture. "Besides, why shouldn't I take advantage of other people's shallowness? That man, just like all the others, only see me as some tennis bracelet. I'm a pretty, shinny thing, something they desire for it's beauty only. If men are crass enough to believe I'll give myself to them just because they ofter me a free meal, like I'm some sort've street walker, than what's so wrong with taking advantage of their presumptuous ignorance?" Checking himself out in the reflection of his phone, he flippantly threw his wrist and concluded, "It's always the same."

The frown Ikkaku was sporting contorted as he began to chuckle, earning him an incredulous look from the beauty sitting parallel to him. "Whoo, I actually feel bad for you. Something must've fucked ya' up real good for you to think that's how _everyone_ is." Trying to contain that jarring smile just a bit, Ikkaku mused, "Maybe you're just spending your time around the wrong people."

"Oh," Yumichika ridiculed, "and are you the right people?" He let lose a laugh. "Are you trying to save me from myself, Ikkaku, like some _nobleee_ prince in a fairy tail?"

On the table top, Ikkaku tapped the surface a few times as the server sped by at a super sonic voracity and refilled his coffee. He swallowed the pipping liquid and grimaced, not sure if it was from the bitter beverage or Yumichika's bitter attitude. "I'm not in the business of saving people, and I sure as hell ain't no prince. If you want someone to save you, it's gotta be yourself." Yumichika seemed to have no cheeky comeback for that, but instead, bit at his lips in contemplation. "But I could be your friend, show you not everyone want's something from you."

"Why?" Yumichika asked, bowing his head slightly, "Why do you want to be friends with someone like me?"

"I find you interesting." A light chatter of late night, frivolous conversations surrounded them while Yumichika looked mutely into Ikkaku's eyes and tried to gauge the hidden intentions underneath. "I guess you could say I want something." Yumichika huffed. He knew it, there was always something. "But it's pretty harmless, just your company." The raven haired man faltered at the declaration so casually spoke and the smirk on his companion's face. "Even if it is nastier than this coffee is sometimes."

The warmth of the cup radiated through his palms as Yumichika tapped the porcelain thoughtfully. "I suppose..I'll be working with your band in the future, so it would do us well to be civil. But I still don't understand why you choose to endure my personality if you find it distasteful."

Ikkaku shrugged nonchalantly while he lifted his cup for another sip, but paused the ascension to say, "Same reason I drink the coffee. It ain't bad, someone just brewed it wrong."

Amongst the drunks, the retro beach music, and the smell of burnt eggs, Yumichika found himself with a genuine smile. "Fine, but if you know what's good for you, you won't compare me to diner coffee again." Flipping his hair, he corrected, "At the very least, I'm Starbucks."

 **xXx**

 **ByaIchi4LifeXoXoCas: Thanks for the love and the support, dear. I'm glad you like the Renji and Melrose aspects of this story. Their kind've the sweet relief in the sea of drama that is the other two pairings. Byakuya wasn't all to bad. lol Actually, he was probably more tame than you thought he'd be.**

 **Dancing Dusk: Thank you for the support! I'm glad you like the pacing, because I always worry that my stories are too long or too much, so that makes me happy to hear. :)**

 **IcarusWalks: That's exactly what I want from this story, so I'm glad you're able to paint a picture in your head. The figurative language is what makes this story so hard to write, but also what makes it special. Thanks for the support, love.**


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